


drawing a map between here and okay

by saltlicorice



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:29:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltlicorice/pseuds/saltlicorice
Summary: Gabriel meets Ezra in a hotel hallway. He doesn't think much of him – just that he looks even ganglier in person than he does on game tape. Ezra thinks Gabriel looks tired.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Content warnings are in the end notes for each chapter. Feel free to message me for more details if you're worried about anything.
> 
> (2) This story takes place in a fictional universe with a fictional NHL. There won't be any real hockey players in the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposting the beta read version of this chapter! I had four amazing betas who made this chapter infinitely better than it was before. A huge thank you to [Clem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smallmercies/pseuds/smallmercies), [ftchocholic](http://ftchocoholic.tumblr.com/), J, and [V](http://shearsys.tumblr.com/)! To everyone who already read the chapter - I know I'm biased, but it is well worth a rearead. And to new readers - I hope you enjoy!

_Friday, June 14, 2019_

Gabriel considers not answering his phone when the Hawks’ front office’s number shows up on his screen. He’s been doing that a lot lately – not picking up when his mother calls, not returning texts from his local friends who know he’s back in Toronto for the summer, only replying to Amber half the time. Cutting people off is vindictively satisfying. 

He lets the phone buzz for a few moments and tries to remember if the front office has ever called him in the summer. He’s pretty sure even when he was negotiating his new contract, the front office called his agent, and Peter called him. So maybe the Hawks are trading him. He doesn’t need to hear that from the front office, really, he would be fine reading about it online, but it’s not the staff’s fault he doesn’t want to talk to them, and they might feel bad about him finding out from Sportsnet.

He taps the green circle, accepting the call.

 

Gabriel flops down on his couch after disconnecting the call. He toes off his shoes and lets them fall to the floor, because there’s no way he can go to the grocery store now without being caught there when the news breaks. He’s not that famous, not even close to the most famous hockey player in Toronto this summer, but this is still Toronto. And now he’s a minor player in the Ilya Sokolov trade, which everyone has been speculating about since before playoffs.

He wonders whose idea it was to ship him out along with Socks. He wouldn’t be surprised if Chris made it a condition when he signed his new, five-year contract last week. He can’t fault management for wanting to keep their star winger around and keep him happy. Gabriel is all for making Chris happy, even though he hasn’t, personally, been very good at it lately.

Maybe this is for the best. Maybe with some distance, Chris will realize that he can still be friends with Gabriel. Maybe some distance during the season will make Chris more open to the idea of training together in the offseason – he has enough family in Toronto that he comes to the city for a few weeks every summer anyways. And, however slim the possibility, maybe Chicago will be willing to take him back and reunite him with Chris at some point.

That’s a lot of maybes and he’s too wrung out to be hopeful right now. He’ll save his fake hope for when he has to give the Rangers’ front office a soundbite about looking forward to joining the team.

 

Gabriel knows the news has broken when his phone starts buzzing and doesn’t stop. He’s about to turn it to silent, or turn it off completely, when Ilya’s name pops up on his screen. He doesn’t really want to talk to Ilya, but it feels wrong to ignore him right now.

“Hi Socks,” Gabriel says.

“Carts!” Ilya replies. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Gabriel says. He’s going to have to be. He’s losing the chance to actively convince Chris they can still be friends, the management of the team that signed him doesn’t want him anymore, and his new teammates will probably hate him as much as his old ones did. But it’s not like he can do anything about it.

The deflection must be obvious because Ilya says, “I am sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Gabriel replies quickly. Ilya may have asked for the trade, even pushed for it, but it’s not his fault Gabriel is collateral damage. “I’m happy you got the trade.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says. “But, I _am_ sorry you were traded because I requested a move.”

“It’s alright. You deserve the trade. You should play for a team that appreciates you.”

“So should you. I think the Rangers will appreciate both of us.”

Gabriel snorts bitterly. “It’s not exactly the same. Just because they want an exuberant Russian, doesn’t mean they’ll want me around.”

“I do not think that all teams will have a problem with a player who is…” Ilya pauses.

“You can’t even say the word gay, can you?” Gabriel snarls. “I’m not sure why you’re expecting a whole team of professional athletes to do better, then.”

“I do not know if you are gay or bisexual or if you identify yourself differently. I do not want to assume,” Ilya says, faintly exasperated, rather than offended. 

“I’m gay.” Gabriel offers it up as an apology for assuming the worst, as a lifeline in the face of not knowing how to feel about this unexpected decency.

“Thank you for telling me.” Ilya sounds like he means it. “I have no problem playing with a gay teammate, and I am sure many other hockey players have no problem. They should not have a problem with it. Not every team has players like Chris and Anthony. Or at least not every team makes them alternate captains.”

Gabriel’s first instinct is to defend Chris, but Chris is the reason Ilya asked for a trade, well Chris and management. So Gabriel swallows back the words before they can leave his mouth, doesn’t say anything about how it wasn’t really Chris’s fault that he made Gabriel miserable.

“I am glad we will still play on a team together,” Ilya says. “Chicago was not always an easy place for me to play, but you were always kind, even when some of the team was not. And you are a good defenseman. I am lucky to continue playing with you.”

Gabriel’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t think anyone has ever called him kind before – it’s not the sort of compliment people give.

“I am still sorry you have been traded when you did not wish to be,” Ilya says.

“No, no, it’s good,” Gabriel says before Ilya can go on, tired of the conversation. The silence is awkward, so he adds, “I’m glad I get to keep playing with you too.”

“Thank you,” Ilya says. “I suppose I should let you go talk to the other people you will want to talk to.”

Gabriel doesn’t want to talk about the trade with anyone else, but he’s sure Ilya does, so he says goodbye. Gabriel doesn’t _have_ anyone else to talk to, at least not until Amber’s back to somewhere with cell service, and that won’t be for another week.

It takes Gabriel a long time to fall asleep that night. He tries to convince himself he’s just stressed about the trade, but there’s a sick, guilty feeling sitting low in his gut that he can’t shake. Management blamed Ilya for the team’s failures, because he may have been their best player, but he didn’t fit the bland mold marketed by the NHL. And Chris took that and ran with it, mocking Ilya in the locker room and criticizing his play to the pettiest beat reporters. And maybe Gabriel was kind to Ilya, or at least not unkind, but he never stopped being friends with Chris. He ignored Chris being an absolute asshole to some of their teammates just because he liked the way the guy looked in hockey gear. And the way he skated, because seriously, he skated like a fucking dream.

 

_Sunday, July 20, 2019_

Ezra is outside waiting, slowly swinging on his parents’ creaky old porch swing, when Carly pulls up. She jumps out of her car and he’s only made it halfway down the walkway before she throws herself into his arms, as though it’s been a lot longer than a week since they last saw each other. He hugs her back tightly. 

“Hey, bigshot,” she says, pulling back and grinning widely.

“Hi, smartypants,” he replies, heading towards her car.

Carly slides back into the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb. “Well, this has been an eventful week for a sport that’s not even in season. How are you feeling?”

Ezra thinks it’s been more eventful for him than for hockey in general, but that’s not her point. “Excited. And nervous, but mostly excited.”

“Good,” she says. “I’m excited for you. I’m going to have to figure out how those NHL subscriptions work so I can watch your games now, you know. No more easy AHL subscription for me.”

He smiles, not quite knowing how to thank her for making the effort to watch a sport she doesn’t particularly like just because he’s playing.

But then they get to _Science World_ and she links her arm through his and leads him to the frankly horrifying visiting exhibit on cannibalism, and he remembers these are simply the kinds of things they do for each other. 

After ten minutes of focussing on Carly’s delighted fascination instead of the pictures of human innards, he finds himself reluctantly drawn in.

 

His parents are watching a Frasier rerun when Carly drops him off after dinner at Maenam Thai. “How’s Carly doing?” his mom asks, as he walks by the living room.

“She’s good,” Ezra answers, still walking towards his room.

“Come join us,” his dad says, and Ezra tries not to frown. His parents know he doesn’t like watching television with commercials, so they’ve mostly stopped asking him to watch shows with them. He sinks down into one of the recliners bracketing the couch, wondering what’s going on, and knowing he won’t find out until the end of the episode.

Right on cue, his dad turns off the television as the credits begin. “Have you ever thought about dating Carly?” he asks.

Ezra gapes at him. “What?” 

“People are going to want to know about your personal life when you make it to the NHL,” his dad continues. “Having a girlfriend will stop them from asking too many questions. You and Carly are close, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend, right?”

“Carly and I don’t want to date each other,” Ezra says, taken aback. His parents were cautiously supportive when he told them he was bisexual and that he mostly liked guys a few months before he was drafted. His dad told him to be careful telling other people, but he had nodded along when his mom had said they’d always love him.

“Ezra, come on,” his dad says. “This isn’t about who you like anymore. This is about you being able to focus on playing professional hockey. You can’t possibly think you can do that and be the first gay player.”

There are so many things wrong with that statement that Ezra does frown then. His dad amends, “Or mostly gay, or whatever. You’re not even all the way gay. You like girls and you like Carly. It wouldn’t be hard for you to date her. Just tell your teammates and the media it’s long distance and hold hands with her when you’re home. It’s not like you don’t already do that. Who knows, it might turn into something real.” 

“I was actually thinking about coming out to my team,” Ezra says. “And I can tell the media _no comment_ whenever they ask personal questions. Or politely evade them. I have had media training.”

“That’s a terrible idea.” His dad sounds quietly angry in a way that Ezra hasn’t heard since he was in middle school and shirking his training. “You’ve never played in the NHL before. You don’t know what the media is like, and even your teammates… You’re not going to be able to trust all of them.” 

Ezra hasn’t argued with his dad in the last decade, but he wishes he could now. Instead, he feels tongue-tied and numb. His dad stands up and walks over next to the recliner. “I’m not trying to be unsupportive,” he says more softly, squeezing Ezra’s shoulder. “I’m supporting your career. You’re more than ready to be in an NHL net, but you’ve never lived under the kind of spotlight pro athletes get, and you’re going to need some help with that until you find your footing. Think about what I’m saying.”

After his dad walks out, Ezra’s mom turns to him. “Your father may be blunt, but he knows what he’s talking about, and he only wants what’s best for you,” she says. “Would it really be that bad to date Carly? You two are so close.”

“I’ve already told some of my teammates I like guys,” Ezra says stubbornly, but doesn’t mention that by some, he means over half of the team. He doesn’t think he can deal with her worrying more. “They’ve been great about it.”

“Be careful, baby. And think about what he said.”

Ezra wants to tell her it’s been more than two years since he came out to his closest friends on the Wolf Pack team, that with every teammate he’s told, he’s felt lighter, that everyone he’s told has reacted well. He wants to say that some of the guys he’s told are playing in the NHL now – not on the Rangers, but still. His dad’s just projecting homophobia onto his team. He can feel his eyes watering though. “I’ll be careful. I think I’m going to bed early tonight,” he says quickly, escaping to his room before he starts crying in front of his mom.

 

Ezra tosses and turns for hours, never properly crying, but never far from it. He thinks about calling Carly, thinks about driving over to her apartment for a sleepover, but she has work in the morning, and he would feel guilty when she inevitably sat up with him anyways.

When he wakes up at 2am, after an hour or so of fitful sleep, he calls André instead, because it’s 6am in Nova Scotia and André can put him on speakerphone while he gets ready for training.

“Hey, Ezra,” André says after the third ring. There’s some shuffling in the background and he sounds distracted. “You’re up late. Or early? What’s up?”

“Both, I guess,” Ezra says, dully. “I can’t sleep.”

The shuffling stops. “Are you alright?” André asks, concerned.

“Was I stupid to come out to you guys?” Ezra blurts.

“No. Of course not. I’m really glad you trusted us,” André answers, and Ezra lets out a long breath. “Why are you worried? Is this about you making the show this year? You know none of us are going to out you.”

Ezra hadn’t thought he could feel worse, but apparently he can. “I know that. I trust you guys,” Ezra says quickly. “It’s just, my parents…” he trails off, not wanting to rehash the conversation.

“Hey, it’s alright,” André says gently. “Your parents don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Ezra starts to protest, but André keeps talking. “No, listen. I don’t mean that generally – not like they’re dumb or anything, but they don’t know what our team is like. Your dad hasn’t played professional hockey in two decades and neither of your parents know us that well, so they don’t know you can trust us.”

“Thanks,” Ezra says. 

“Hey, no problem,” André says, and Ezra can hear him smiling. “Try to get some sleep?” 

“Alright, good night,” Ezra says.

“Good night,” André replies, before hanging up.

It doesn’t take Ezra long to fall asleep after that.

 

_Monday, July 28, 2019_

Gabriel wonders how he never noticed that every part of his workouts has the same rhythm as punching someone in the face over and over and over again. Push ups? Punching with both arms. Stair runs? Uppercuts. Exercise bike? Alright, maybe that’s more like stomping on someone.

He’s never wanted to punch someone before, not even on the ice. He’s had more than a few opponents try to goad him into a fight, had more than a few coaches encourage him to rise to the bait every now and then. But Gabriel’s always considered fights the worst part of hockey, and while he won’t voice that opinion aloud, he does avoid them.

He’s thinking about fighting now, and thinking that he would be more than willing to drop his gloves with Anthony. Or not even wait until they were on the ice. He should have done it when he had the chance. It’s not like Chris could have hated him any more than he did. It’s not like being gay _and_ punching Chris’s best friend would have been worse than only being gay. Besides, it might have made Gabriel feel better.

Gabriel’s looking forward to the morning he wakes up able to daydream about punching Chris. He’s getting there, but every time he thinks about Chris, he inevitably gets sidetracked by fantasies of Chris apologizing and kissing him, not always in that order. 

His training has been going better since he started timing his workouts to the rhythm of punching Anthony in the face. He will admit he introduced this new visualization technique around the same time he started sleeping more than five hours a night, so he’s not really sure how to attribute credit. Either way, the Rangers won’t be able to be disappointed in his performance, come October. And Gabriel won’t let them find out anything else they could be disappointed about.

In the meantime, he can imagine how satisfying it would be to punctuate a conversation with Anthony using his fists. Anthony was always a fan of the _bro code_. Apparently his version of the code didn’t extend to not outing a _bro_ to the entire team, but Gabriel figures it does extend to fistfights. With the way he’s training now, Gabriel likes to think he would win one against Anthony.

 

_Tuesday, August 14, 2019_

Gabriel laughs until he cries when the album shows up in his Facebook feed. Chris is wearing a summery, dove gray suit, and he looks as good as he always does. Objectively speaking though, he can’t hold a candle to his girlfriend, who looks stunning in a floaty mint dress and gold jewelry, and who is taller than Chris in her heels. Gabriel has to stop and check her name – Tanya – even though it’s her album he’s looking at. 

The grooms are attractive too. They’re definitely not athletes, unless they run marathons or something, but they could both be models. One of them looks like he’s related to Tanya. The whole album could be a progressive J. Crew wedding apparel campaign.

Chris looks right at home. Gabriel thinks he can be excused for the laughter at least, if not for the tears. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks experimentally. It feels good, and there’s no one around to judge him.

He wants to text Chris. The message would be something like _you goddamn fucking hypocrite_. 

When he pulls his messages up, there’s a long string of unanswered texts staring back at him. He sent the last one – _hope your summer training goes well. See you in the fall_ – a few days after he got back to Toronto. Texting Chris now would give Chris another opportunity to ignore him, to demonstrate how little he cares what Gabriel thinks. 

And really? When had that not been the way they worked? Even when they had been friends, Chris hadn’t even pretended to care when Gabriel hinted he should tone down the rookie hazing or keep his problems with Ilya inside the locker room. Chris did what he wanted to do, Anthony made sure everyone else did what Chris wanted them to do, and Gabriel went right along with them. 

Gabriel feels a hot rush of mortification looking back at the string of unanswered texts. Chris treated him like shit, treated their teammates like shit, probably treated everyone he met like shit, and Gabriel kept begging Chris to take him back. 

He wishes he had Tanya’s number so he could tell her what a hypocrite her boyfriend is. She attended a gay wedding and took Chris along with her, so she probably won’t think much of his homophobia. And refusing to talk to Gabriel because he was gay, that _was_ homophobic, as much as Gabriel had been trying to avoid the term, avoid the way it made him feel like a victim. Embracing it would be worth it if Chris’s girlfriend left him and he felt the same heartbroken humiliation Gabriel has been feeling.

But even as Gabriel considers who he could get Tanya's number from, he realizes what a terrible idea that would be. She wouldn’t pick up if he called her, and if she did, she would probably say that gay guys were great – and so, so cute – but she would have been uncomfortable with a lesbian in her locker room, back when she played sports. She might feel sorry for him as she agreed with Chris, but that would be it.

He thinks better of finding her number, tells himself it’s only because it would be creepy to call her. There’s no one around to call him out on pretending it has nothing to do with the way she would laugh in his face.

Instead, he takes a screenshot of the picture and texts it to Amber, grateful that his sister’s made it back to California. He captions it with _I really fucking hate the fucking hypocrite_.

She replies a minute later. _Fucking finally. I’ve hated him for months. Skype me this weekend and we can both complain about him?_ She follows it up with an uncharacteristic smiley face.

He texts her back – _Absolutely_.

 

 _Wednesday, September 4, 2019_

Ezra had a teammate on his peewee hockey team, a boy named Seth, who would loiter in the locker room after every game, packing and repacking his gear, dragging anyone whose attention he could catch into long conversations, traipsing between the rink and the locker room on the flimsiest of excuses.

This is the first time in years he’s thought about Seth, maybe the first time he’s thought about Seth and realized why he was so reluctant to leave after games. He feels a pang of guilt at not having thought about him for so many years, for never trying to figure out if he was alright after he left the team, for only thinking of him now, when he might actually be able to relate to how Seth felt.

Ezra considers lingering in the shower, decides against it. Delaying the dressing down he is inevitably going to get on the drive home will only make it worse, and his thoughts are racing too much for him to plan out logical responses to whatever his dad is going to spew at him.

He tosses his gear bag into the trunk and climbs into the passenger seat without looking at his dad. 

His dad waits until they’re on the freeway to speak. “I’m going to repeat what I said earlier and maybe you’ll listen now that we’re off the ice, although god knows why you won’t listen to me on the ice anymore.” Ezra stares straight ahead. “When I tell you to stop a shot from the butterfly, you stop it from the butterfly. You don’t do whatever the hell you feel like doing while we’re training. You practice the techniques I tell you to practice.”

“Do you understand?” he asks when Ezra stays quiet, his voice forceful enough that it seems to reverberate in the confined space.

Ezra should say yes. His dad only has ice time booked for them another three times before Ezra flies back to Hartford, so he should simply say yes and do what his dad wants for their last few ice sessions. He can humor his dad and avoid a fight and go back to doing what he knows is best when he gets to training camp. That’s what he should do. But the simmering resentment he’s felt all summer is close to boiling over, and he decides to let it for once.

He tries to keep his tone light as he says, “Nicklas had us using different techniques all last year and I think Coach Myers will be more impressed if I’ve practiced the kind of play his organization uses.”

“I know I’m only a bantam coach, not a professional coach like the guys you’re apparently willing to listen to,” his dad replies, and Ezra knows his barb landed. “But I’m pretty sure Coach Myers will be impressed if you know a variety of techniques.”

Ezra feels petty, not vindicated. On this particular point at least, his dad is right: Ezra has never believed the only coaches and players who matter are the ones who have made it to the show. “It’s not that you’re a bantam coach,” he says. “It’s just that you’re you.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s supposed to mean that I have absolutely no reason to trust you know what’s good for me as a professional hockey player. I guess that extends to your coaching.” Ezra’s been thinking about this for weeks now, about his dad’s tepid support when he came out. He had talked to Ezra about girls before that, but never said a word about guys or girls afterwards, at least until the whole why-don’t-you-date-Carly shitshow. Ezra’s thought about it enough to get past the confusion and the hurt and hit the anger head on.

“Seriously?” his dad asks, voice absolutely flat. “Please do not tell me this has anything to do with what I said about Carly.”

“I guess it does,” Ezra says.

“You’re better than this. You are not going to throw away your best shot at playing in the NHL because I told you to date a girl.” And there it is.

“My shot at playing in the NHL has nothing to do with you.” Ezra feels like he’s spitting the words out, painful, like tacks.

“Like hell it doesn’t,” his dad snaps. “I’ve coached you since you were able to balance on skates. And who the hell do you think has been paying for your fucking expensive goalie equipment and fancy coaches.”

“Spending money on me doesn’t make you any less bigoted,” Ezra says softly, in the suddenly ringing silence, shocked at himself, even as he says it. 

“I’m not some homophobe and you need to stop throwing immature accusations around.” Ezra hates how patient his dad sounds, cooled a hundred degrees from his outburst. “I don’t care who you want to sleep with, but I do have a realistic perspective on how it’s going to affect your career. Which is something I thought you cared about.”

Ezra wonders if his dad really believes he’s stopped caring about his career or if he’s saying that just to be cruel. He hates that either possibility hurts. “So you’re fine with me being bisexual. In theory at least. Except, you don’t want anyone to know about it.” Ezra can barely hear himself over the car’s air conditioning. “I don’t really see what the difference is. It sounds a lot like that _hate the sin, love the sinner_ bullshit you said only religious idiots believed.”

“This isn’t about whether or not I love you. You’re my son – of course I love you.” Ezra can feel his eyes watering. “This is about what’s going to happen to you in the League, how the players and coaches are going to treat you, how the commentators are going to talk about you, whether you get remembered for being a great goaltender or if your only legacy is that you were the first gay guy in the League.”

Ezra doesn’t have the energy to remind his dad that he’s bisexual, not gay. “Maybe I don’t mind if that’s my legacy. You’ve never bothered to ask.” 

“Is that what you want?” his dad asks incredulously.

“I don’t know, but I don’t see why I can’t be remembered for my goaltending and for coming out. Someone has to do it first.” Ezra wouldn’t mind being _remembered_ as the first out player, but he definitely does not want to _be_ the first out player. Honestly, he’s not sure he would survive all the scrutiny and his dad probably knows that. Still, he never has bothered to ask.

“That’s incredibly stupid,” his dad says.

If Ezra tries to answer, he’s going to start crying outright. Luckily, they’re only a few blocks from the house and his dad seems to be done talking. 

Ezra practically jumps out of the car the second his dad parks and grabs his bag out of the trunk. He goes straight to his room, drops his bag by the door, kicks off his shoes, before letting himself fall onto his bed face first. 

Later, he’ll toss his practice gear in the washing machine, but that can wait until he doesn’t need to scream into a pillow. Even sweaty jerseys don’t start to reek that fast. And after that, he’ll book a new flight back to Hartford. It’ll probably be expensive, but what’s the point of making a professional athlete’s salary if you don’t spend it when you need to. His dad will be furious that he’s skipping out on their last practice sessions, but maybe the point of _being an adult_ is not letting your parents make you miserable.

 

_Saturday, September 21, 2019_

Ezra is tossing a few last odds and ends – spare phone charger, spare sunglasses, third luckiest shirt – into his suitcase when he notices André leaning against the doorframe.

“All packed?” Ezra asks, grimacing at the ring of unpacked detritus circling his current spot on the floor. It’s not even a quarter of the stuff he’s going to have to pack up if he stays in New York, once he finds a place to live there.

“Yeah.” André pauses. “We should drive your Prius up tomorrow.”

“Okay, sure.” Ezra shrugs. “Is something wrong with Greta?” They usually take André’s SUV to training camp because so few of the guys bring cars to camp that it makes sense to have space to carpool.

“Greta’s fine,” André says, rolling his eyes at Ezra’s name for his car. “But it’ll be easier if you don’t have to come back for your car in a month.”

“Oh,” Ezra says. He temporarily forgot to worry about their likely team assignments this year, in an organization that recently traded their backup goalie, but doesn’t lack offensive depth. They haven’t discussed it yet. It felt like too much to bring up over the phone, and in the two days since André got here, well, they’ve been talking _a lot_ about Ezra’s parents and one depressing topic is plenty enough.

“Hey, come on, it’s fine,” André says when Ezra freezes up. “Are you freaking out about this because you’re actually freaked out or because you’re worried about me freaking out?”

“I’m not freaking out,” Ezra says, and André raises an eyebrow. “A bit of both, I guess,” he concedes.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about me.” André crosses the room to sit on Ezra’s bed.

“It’s just…” Ezra doesn’t know how to finish that thought. 

“I’m more than alright with another year here,” André assures him. “I mean, of course I’d rather be playing in the big leagues, but who wouldn’t? That’s a part of life when you play on a farm team.”

Ezra winces, but André continues, “Seriously though, I’m not jealous. We’re going to have a great year here in Hartford. Yaks called me a few days ago and said the coaches are thinking about giving me an A this year.”

“That’s awesome!” Ezra says, sitting back on his heels to look up at André. “You’ll make a great alternate captain.”

“Yeah?” André smiles tentatively. “It’s not final yet.”

“They’d be crazy not to give you the A,” Ezra replies. “You’re basically doing the job already. Come on, you’ve been talking me out of my own head for the last two days.”

“That’s because we’re friends, not because of anything captainish,” André says. “You’d do the same for me.”

Ezra would. And he knows André came back to their apartment a few days early instead of making a half-day stop before driving to New York because they’re friends. And he doesn’t imagine André would let any of their teammates fall asleep in his bed after a long conversation, but – “You’re good at it.”

Ezra cuts André off before he can protest. ”No, don’t argue. You know you’re better at this kind of stuff than I am. And you do it with everyone. Not like changing your flights or anything, but how many times did you stay after practice with the rookies last year? Or when the defense was falling apart and we were on that losing streak, I’m pretty sure you got lunch or drinks with basically all of the d-men. Or at least talked to them.”

André’s cheeks are flushed the slightest bit pink. “That’s because they asked me.”

“There’s a reason they asked _you_ ,” Ezra says, smiling. “You’re really patient and understanding and the whole team trusts you. You’re going to be the best alternate captain.” Ezra sits down next to André and wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

“Thanks.” André’s cheeks are definitely pink now. “You’re going to be a great NHL goalie.”

Ezra lets himself sag against André’s side. “Hopefully.” 

“You know you’re staying up this year,” André says. “Seriously, who else would be the backup?”

“Yeah, I know. But what if,” Ezra pauses and André squeezes an arm around his waist, waits him out. ‘What if I get up there and I’m not any good?”

“Remember the Calder playoffs?” André asks.

“Yeah,” Ezra replies.

“How many shutouts did you get?” 

“Four,” Ezra says, and André practically beams at him. “That wasn’t the NHL, though.” 

André’s expression shifts to something thoughtful. “Okay, here’s how I see it,” he says. “You were probably the best goalie in the AHL last season and you’ve already played a few games with the Rangers, so you’re at least as ready as anyone else who’s moving up this season.”

Ezra nods against André’s shoulder.

“Besides, you’re going to be backing Lavoie up,” André says.” You’re not going to have the pressure of starting, and it’s Lavoie. He’s going to make sure you have a good season.”

Ezra nods again because André’s right. Lavoie had been enthusiastically supportive when Ezra was up with the Rangers last season, more than he had expected from a franchise goaltender. And maybe he should have expected that, because everyone who played with Lavoie seemed to think the world of him, both as a goalie, and as a teammate.

“And absolute worst case scenario, which, by the way, is not going to happen, you end up back here with us for one more season, and you break into the NHL next year,” André says.

“Hey, that wouldn’t be the worst,” Ezra says, elbowing André in the side. “You guys are the best.”

“You know what I mean,” André says, tickling Ezra’s ribs in retaliation. 

Ezra grabs André’s wrist, then freezes. “Oh god, I’m going to be backing Philippe Lavoie up. Like probably full time.” 

André looks alarmed for a moment before he starts laughing. “I don’t remember,” he chokes out. “Was he your first crush or your second?”

“Second,” Ezra says through gritted teeth, and it’s his turn to flush.

“This is great,” André says. “Come on, I’d be over the moon if I got to play with Stacy Martin. You’re not still into him, are you?”

“Ew, no,” Ezra says. “And he’s married, anyways.”

“Open marriages and threesomes exist,” André says. 

Ezra scowls at him.

“I’m not saying you should go for it, just stating some facts,” André says, then sobers. “Is it going to make things awkward for you?”

“Not awkward really,” Ezra decides. “It’s embarrassing, though.”

“Why? You’re hardly the first person to have a crush on Lavoie,” André says. “I doubt you’re even the only guy on the team who’s ever had a crush on him.”

“Well, when you put it like that, he is pretty irresistible, isn’t he?” Ezra asks, waggling his eyebrows.

“Personally, I’ve never seen _his_ eyebrows do that, so you’re still my favorite goalie,” André says, laughing again.

 

Ezra brushes his teeth and does a final check of his luggage before crawling into bed, when he notices André hovering in his doorway again.

“Come here,” Ezra says, scooting over to the far edge of the bed and patting the space beside him.

“You don’t mind?” 

“When have I ever minded? Come over here.”

André slides under the comforter that Ezra is holding up. “I’m really happy for you, but I’m going to miss you like hell,” he says.

“I’m going to miss you so much, too,” Ezra says, spooning up behind him.

 

_Sunday, September 22, 2019_

Gabriel mentally growls when someone knocks on his door. He’s comfortable where he is, stretched out on the bed, half dozing as he screws around on his phone. Even as his views on five star hotel rooms have become distinctly more tepid, he’s remained a fan of their beds. 

He considers ignoring whoever it is, pretending like he’s napping, which has the advantage of being sort of true. He’s not quite sure how things work on the Rangers, though, and while he can’t imagine why the team leadership would be at the hotel housing the prospects and trades, ignoring them would make a lousy first impression. He rolls to the edge of the bed and stands up. 

When he opens the door, of course it’s not one of the vets. It’s a wide-eyed kid wearing way too much hair gel who looks all of sixteen. Gabriel vaguely recognizes him from the two days he spent watching the draft. He thinks the Rangers picked him up in the second or third round, but he doesn’t remember his name. 

“Hi,” the kid says. “Are you Gabriel Cartwright?”

“Yeah,” Gabriel says. 

“I’m Casey Auston. I’m so excited to be playing with you. I’m from Evanston, so I’ve been to a few Hawks games and you and Ilya were some of my favorite players and I’m sorry you got traded because trades always suck, but I’m really glad I get to play with you.” Casey stops and visibly takes a breath. “Sorry. I told myself I’d be cool, but this is kind of like meeting a celebrity.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Casey. You should tell Ilya you’re a fan. He’ll appreciate hearing it.” Gabriel figures he can redirect the fanboying. 

“He will?” Casey asks, and Gabriel nods. “I’ll definitely tell him. Also, a bunch of us are going out for dinner – do you want to join us?” 

Gabriel wonders if Casey always talks in such a rush, or if he really is starstruck over _Gabriel_. It should probably be flattering, but he feels annoyed by the unsolicited, and frankly undeserved fawning. And he is not in the mood for dinner with his new teammates, especially not a gaggle of excited teenagers. “I was going to do room service tonight,” he says.

Casey looks ready to beg, and really, the best thing Gabriel can do is spare them both the embarrassment. “And I promised my sister I’d Skype with her, but maybe some other time.” 

“No worries,” Casey says, smiling again. “I’ll see you at camp tomorrow.”

Gabriel nods and lets the door swing closed. 

He sighs, slumping against the door frame, letting his shoulders sag, then tipping his head back to look at the water stain on the otherwise pristine ceiling. The stain looks like a bird of prey if he stares long enough and he thinks he should feel less ambivalent towards it than he does. He mentally calculates the time in California, before remembering it’s a Sunday and Amber doesn’t keep much of a schedule on weekends. He pulls up Skype because he may have talked to her last weekend, but she’s his twin and there have been times since they left home when they’ve talked every day. They’ve always talked to each other when they’re too pissy to talk to anyone else.

Amber lets him talk about his flight and his last week of training for a few minutes before she asks what he thinks of his new team.

“They’re fine,” he says. “I haven’t really met anyone yet.”

“You are going to give them a chance, right?” she asks. “Please don’t preemptively hate them because the Hawks were assholes.”

“I don’t _hate_ anyone,” he replies. “I just haven’t had a chance to talk to them.”

“Alright,” she holds her hands up, “but you do have to work with these guys, and work is _a lot_ better if you like your coworkers. You should at least try being friends with them. Maybe you’ll even be able to trust some of them eventually.” Amber knows all about the difference between working with friends and working with misogynistic assholes, but he doesn’t think her experience really applies here. 

“They’re still professional athletes,” he reasons. “The homophobia’s part of the culture, so I’m not going to be able to trust them.”

Amber looks like she wants to say something, but Gabriel continues, “I’ll be more careful this time, and I’m sure I’ll be able to hang out with the team. I can have fun playing hockey without being best friends with everyone. Who knows, I’ll probably enjoy it more, given how the whole friend thing worked out last time.”

Amber smiles, and it’s a small, sad thing. Gabriel feels guilty for worrying her, but they’ve always been honest with each other about how they’re doing. He doesn’t want to dwell on how unenthused he is about his new team, so he summons up an answering smile, hopes it looks less fragile than Amber’s, and asks about her work.

Nearly an hour has passed and Amber is in the middle of recounting a successful test drive she took in an autonomous car, when someone else knocks on the door. He would be tempted again to ignore the knock if it wasn’t obvious Amber had heard it too.

“I should get that,” he says reluctantly. She rolls her eyes and he answers the door.

He recognizes one of the guys in the hallway as the goalie who’s probably going to be their backup this year. _Ezra Pateras_ , Gabriel thinks. He looks even ganglier in person than he does on game tape. The other guy doesn’t look familiar and Gabriel assumes he’s an AHL vet.

“Hi, I’m André and this is Ezra,” the second guy says. “Gabriel, right?”

“That’s me.” Gabriel nods. 

“A few of us are going out for drinks,” Ezra says. 

“There’s a sports bar a few blocks from here,” André adds. “It’s pretty low-key and it’ll be quiet since it’s Sunday.”

“Do you want to come?” Ezra asks.

Gabriel does not. He’ll have to get to know his new teammates at camp, and told Amber he’d give them a chance to prove they’re better than his old teammates, but he doesn’t have to do it on his own time. “Sorry,” he gestures to the laptop sitting open on the desk. “I’m talking to my sister. Maybe some other time.”

“Oh, sorry to interrupt,” André says.

“Sorry,” Ezra says loudly, waving at the laptop with a sheepish grin. “What’s your sister’s name?” he asks Gabriel.

“Amber,” Gabriel says.

“Sorry, Amber,” Ezra calls across the room.

“It’s alright,” Amber yells back from the laptop screen. “It’s nice to meet Gabriel’s new team.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” André says. “Both of you. And we’ll let you get back to your call.”

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gabriel says, pulling the door shut after Ezra and André head back down the hall.

“You could have gone out with them,” Amber chides. “I wouldn’t mind.” She doesn’t say that he should have gone, but he knows she’s thinking it. 

“I know,” he says. “I’m tired, though. And camp starts tomorrow.”

“Sleepy tired?” she asks. “Should I let you get some rest?”

He doesn’t think he could sleep yet, and he’d rather not be alone with his thoughts. “Not yet,” he says. “Do you want to tell me about the rest of the test drive?”

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This includes homophobia, both external and internalized. Feel free to message me for more details if you're worried about anything or if you think I should include any other warnings.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge thank you to [Clem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smallmercies/pseuds/smallmercies), [ftchocholic](http://ftchocoholic.tumblr.com/), and [V](http://shearsys.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!
> 
> Warning notes are at the end of the chapter.

_Wednesday, October 2, 2019_

“At least we’re in Newark on a Wednesday,” André says, from Ezra’s passenger seat. “If it were Laguardia on a weekend, or Laguardia at all, you’d have to drop me off half a mile from the airport. Fucking construction.”

Ezra smiles despite himself, only a little watery, as he pulls into the parking lane outside departures. “There’s no one behind us.” He shuts off the engine and climbs out to help André unload his bags, even though he only has one suitcase and his gear bag.

Ezra tugs André into a hug after they set the bags on the sidewalk.

“I’m going to miss you,” André says, somewhat muffled into Ezra’s neck.

“Me too.” Ezra doesn’t say, _I wish I was going with you_ , or _I wish you were staying_ , because the former isn’t true and giving voice to the latter would be mean. He wraps his arms more tightly around André’s shoulders and tucks his nose into André’s hair.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Ezra says, not a question when they finally pull apart. “I am going to Skype you all the time.”

“We’ll keep you up to date on all our spider intruders and our attempts to get into the pool at midnight,” André says. “You’ll probably appreciate our building groupchat more now that you’re not living with us.”

Ezra doubts that. He’s – well, he’s happy, honored, excited, relieved – he’s feeling so many amazing things about staying up with the Rangers. But moving away from the guys who have become some of his closest friends over the last three years, trading them for a team of strangers? _That_ thought has his stomach twisting into knots.

 

His phone feels like it’s buzzing nonstop by the time he’s halfway back to Tarrytown so Ezra pulls over, knowing what he’s hoping to see. He scrolls quickly through his notifications, until he finds the messages from André – a smiling selfie informing everyone he’s through security and Hartford-bound and a second message telling Ezra to not forget about the little people and to shut out everyone except Colorado.

Ezra scrolls through his photos until he finds one he snapped of André in a Hartford Wolf Pack tank lifting their neighbor’s nearly full grown Newfoundland.

He sends it to André along with the message _You’re not little, you’re not an Av, and I’M NOT FORGETTING YOU_.

He’s missed a few messages from his other teammates, including one from Oscar inviting him to lunch nearly two hours ago.

He barely knows Oscar – they’ve played together for half a season, but, well, it usually takes Ezra a bit longer than that to start talking to _anyone_ – so he’s not sure why he would want to get lunch together. He probably should take the opportunity to get to know his teammates better. He really wishes André was here to do this with him.

 _Sorry, took André to the airport and missed this. Dinner today or lunch tomorrow?_ he sends.

Oscar suggests dinner, which ends up being Ezra and Oscar and Zach, at Ezra’s favorite pizza place. It’s not much to look at, but it serves delicious thin-crust slices, larger than his face.

Oscar pronounces it _very American_ , when they’re each served with giant slices. 

Ezra laughs as Zach disagrees, “It’s very New York. In Chicago, the pizza’d be three times as thick, and in Cali, it’d probably have another five artsy toppings.”

“That is true,” Oscar concedes. “We were allowed to order pepperoni here without disappointed looks.”

“Anaheim wouldn’t let you order normal pizza?” Ezra asks, then bites his lip, hoping he hasn’t insulted Oscar and Zach’s former home.

“I know, right? Anaheim isn’t even San Francisco...” Zach begins.

“Thank god,” Oscar mutters.

Zach continues as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “We don’t even have an excuse for the pretentiousness, but the guys loved this one really artsy joint. First time Oscar and I tried to order pepperoni, the waiter actually rolled his eyes at us. We’re still overcoming the trauma.”

“So at least you like New York pizza better?” Ezra asks, and gets a pair of nods in response.

They eat in silence for a minute, before Ezra starts worrying that it’s awkward, casting around for something to say. “By the way, congrats on making the roster.” He wonders if the last few weeks had been extra stressful for Oscar and Zach. They’d both played for the Ducks for half a season before being traded to the Rangers and sent back to the minors last January.

“You too,” Oscar says. “You have been an amazing goaltender.”

“Thank you,” Ezra replies.

“I’m changing the subject here,” Zach says, “but have you figured out where you’re living yet?”

Ezra groans and shakes his head. “Don’t remind me. I haven’t even started looking yet, but my mom’s texting me every day about finding a real estate agent.”

“That should be no problem,” Oscar says. “The team has a real estate agent and we only started looking today because Zach thought looking earlier would be like a curse.”

“A jinx man, not a curse. And screw you anyways.” Zach shoves lightly at Oscar’s shoulder. “You have weirder superstitions.”

“Yes, but I do not think a house, a place to live, is unlucky,” Oscar retorts.

Zach visibly swallows back a reply. Or maybe a laugh. Ezra can’t tell.

“So actually – and no pressure here, feel free to say no if you want to – but we were wondering if you wanted to share an apartment with us,” Zach says.

Ezra thinks about it. All his friends are back in Hartford, mostly living in the building he used to live in. He’s been putting off finding a place here because he hates the idea of living alone. The only advantage would be having more opportunities to hook up with guys, and honestly, while he doesn’t mind the idea in theory, he’s not sure he’d enjoy hooking up in practice.

He’s a bit old to live with one of the vets, not that any of them have offered. And not that he’s thought about what it would be like to live with Lavoie. There are no other new guys, except for the Chicago trades – Ilya is married with children and Gabriel doesn’t seem to like anyone.

“You can really say no. We will not be upset,” Oscar says, breaking Ezra’s train of thought. “Or you can tell us you want more time to think. We are not in a rush.”

“No, I’d like that,” Ezra says. And he would, even without the laundry list of options he doesn’t have. He’s pretty sure Oscar and Zach are cooler than him, but they like him for some reason. Besides, they seem like they’d be nice, easy-going roommates. “I’m in.”

“Yeah?” Zach grins when Ezra nods. “Awesome!”

“You can help us look at apartments,” Oscar says. “The agent gave us a long list. Finding a place to live in New York City is going to be terrible. At least the list has a lot of pictures.”

 

 _Friday, October 4, 2019_

Gabriel schools the panic off his face when Rob pulls him aside after a team meeting about autograph sessions and other opening weekend fan events. Getting singled out by the senior front office staff is never a good thing, and looking anything less than calm will only make it harder for him to put a stop to whatever rumors must be leaking out of Chicago.

“How are you settling in?” Rob asks, as the rest of the guys file out of the conference room.

“Good, definitely good.” Gabriel knows that’s the right answer, whether or not it’s true.

“Have you found somewhere to live?”

“Not yet. I’ve been pretty busy with camp.” Gabriel doesn’t mention that he isn’t sure whether he needs an apartment in New York or Hartford. He’s among the top seven defensemen at camp, but the guys who played in Hartford last year are coming off a win in the Calder Cup finals. Gabriel is coming off a disastrous, four-game playoff flop with the Hawks in which his poor performance got him scratched for the last two games.

“Do you have the contact information for the team’s real estate agents?” Rob asks.

Gabriel shakes his head. It was probably in one of the many _Welcome to the Rangers_ emails he couldn’t bring himself to read.

“Well, I’ll send you the information today.” Rob turns towards the door. “It’ll be easier if you find a place before the season starts.”

“Of course. Thank you.” Gabriel holds in his sigh of relief until he’s halfway down the hallway. He doesn’t need the front office knowing he was worried about getting sent down.

 

Amber offers to fly out from California to help him look at apartments when he tells her about his appointment with a real estate agent. He almost says yes, remembering how much fun he had tagging along on her apartment hunt in Mountain View and helping her lug thrift store furniture back to the studio she settled on. But that was four years ago.

Now, Amber is busier with work and Gabriel isn’t really in the mood for company, so he says no.

He means to follow Amber’s advice, at least, and figure out what kind of place he wants before his meeting with the poor real estate agent, but all he comes up with is _not what I had in Chicago_.

He had been so proud of that gleaming oversized bachelor pad, so pleased by the constant reminder he’d made it. He’d had fun there, even though _fun_ usually meant buying an extravagant amount of overpriced alcohol and waking up hungover to check on the teammates and strangers passed out around the apartment. Occasionally, one of them would make him breakfast.

He can still see Chris standing in front of the glass wall in his own apartment, identical to the one in Gabriel’s place, sipping a martini through a straw with two skewered olives, saying, “You really know you've made it once Instagram models let you fuck them where anyone can see them, see you.” Gabriel feels sick about having bought into that brand of _making it_ , but he has no idea how else people go about being professional athletes. He supposes he’s stuck with it.

 

Naturally, when Jacqueline begins their meeting by asking what kind of place he’s looking for, he responds with _an apartment_ and freezes up, turning red, unable to think of anything else to say.

“That’s alright,” Jacqueline says, pulling out a clipboard. “You’re hardly my first client to not know exactly what they want. Let’s see if we can narrow it down a bit.”

She hands him the clipboard, and the checklist it holds is a depressing confirmation that Gabriel knows what he doesn't want – nothing too modern, no need for space to entertain, he’d rather not share a building with any teammates – but he has no idea what he does want – he’s not particular about views, his only preference regarding neighborhoods is for a convenient one, and he doesn’t care whether or not the apartment is open plan.

He wonders if Jacqueline notices his apathy. Three years ago he told the Chicago realtor he definitely wanted an apartment like the ones his teammates had without thinking twice, and now he feels adrift without that confidence. But Jacqueline wasn’t there three years ago, so maybe nothing seems off to her. Or maybe she’s too professional to let anything like pity show on her face. Or maybe she isn’t paid enough to care.

Whatever she’s thinking, she tells him she’ll line up a few apartments for them to visit on his next day off.

 

The apartments Jacqueline shows him are all cozy in a way he can’t pin down, warm despite being air conditioned and unoccupied. Gabriel wonders if these are the kinds of places she shows all her clients, or if she thought he needed somewhere _comforting_. It’s mortifying, even as he admits he likes the places she has shown him.

He signs a lease for the apartment she shows him in Tarrytown. It’s walking distance from the practice rink on anything but the nastiest days. 

Gabriel shakes Jacqueline’s hand, grateful to be rid of her scrutiny, even if he’s only imagining it. He signs a dozen backdated checks and arranges to have his stuff shipped over from the Chicago storage facility where it’s been languishing.

He moves out of the hotel on the day off marking the halfway point through the preseason games and falls asleep easier that night than he has since the season began, free of the constant tension of living surrounded by teammates.

 

_Saturday, October 12, 2019_

The Rangers finish the preseason with a 4-2 record. Ezra finishes 3-0. It doesn’t mean much – six games played against rosters full of guys who won’t be staying up in the NHL. 

The coaches may not agree though, because he gets the nod for the home opener, and again when the Habs visit for a weekend matinee two days later. 

No one in the organization has said the words starter or backup yet, but Philippe Lavoie has been warming the bench and Ezra can’t help but wonder. The wondering makes him uneasy. It doesn’t help that Philippe has been distant with him – not unkind, but for a guy who was so welcoming last season, he hasn’t made many friendly overtures beyond telling Ezra to call him Philippe, or Shep. 

Ezra doesn’t meet Philippe’s eyes after they beat the Habs, not even when Philippe taps the brim of his hat to Ezra’s helmet as he brings up the rear of the love-your-goalie line, so he’s surprised when Philippe throws an arm around his shoulders and says, “You did great, Patches.” 

“Oh, um, thank you,” Ezra replies. He’s pretty sure he’s turning bright red.

“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? Margot and the girls have been wanting to meet our new goalie.”

“Really? That would be great.” And also nerve-wracking, but it can’t hurt to get to know his teammates’ families.

Philippe smiles as they head down the tunnel, and Ezra focuses on the smile and ignores the voice in the back of his head saying Philippe probably just invited him over because his wife told him to.

 

“That’s just not fair,” Zach says, pouting, when Ezra tells him and Oscar he won’t need a ride back with them. “Robs said Shep’s almost a gourmet chef. I want someone to cook fancy stuff for me.”

“Goalies are allowed to love each other best,” Oscar reminds him.

“Aren’t you going home to eat the leftover chicken Oscar made yesterday?” Ezra adds. “Someone did cook for you.”

“But we have to figure out something to eat with it,” Zach whines. “And none of us are good at anything other than grilling meat.”

They’re in the middle of trying to figure out if adding vegetables to Kraft Dinner will magically transform it into a diet-plan-compliant side dish when Philippe comes over. “Put a little olive oil on the vegetables and you can grill them too. Save your cheat calories for something better than KD,” he says. “Ezra, are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I just need to put my bag in Zach’s car.”

“Go ahead, we can get your bag.” Oscar waves him off.

Ezra thanks him and follows Philippe out of the locker room.

“Are you okay with walking?” Philippe asks after the door swings shut behind them. “Our apartment is on the east side, but it’s nice out today.”

“Sure,” Ezra says. He’s tired, but not exhausted, and New York isn’t going to be this nice for much longer.

They get stopped for autographs and pictures a dozen times in the first block. Ezra doesn’t mind and Philippe doesn’t seem to either. He practically lights up every time it’s a kid who stops them.

“Sorry,” Philippe says, when they’ve made it another block and aren’t getting stopped anymore. “One of the dangers of walking home, but it’s New York City, so no one’s going to recognize us now that we’re not right outside MSG.”

“It’s all good,” Ezra says. “I like the fans. They care so much about this team, you know, so taking a few pictures with them is kind of the least we can do.”

“You’re a good kid,” Philippe tells him. “And you’ve had a hell of a start to this season.” His tone is wistful, but Ezra tenses anyway, wondering if it is masking anger.

“Patches, relax.” Philippe sounds like he’s rolling his eyes, but in a nice way. “It’s a good thing. I’m not upset.”

“No?” Ezra winces at how uncertain he sounds.

“I wish I was playing better, but I’m really happy you’ve been playing so well,” Philippe says. “Come on, kid. I’m thirty-four. The Rangers need a new goalie.”

“Oh.” Ezra isn't sure what else to say. “You’re not that old.”

Philippe laughs. “You sound like Margot. She always says hockey players’ expiration dates come faster than models’.” He glances at Ezra, smiling. “Seriously though, the coaches probably aren’t going to say anything official for another few weeks, but if you keep playing like you’ve been playing, you’ll be starting this year.”

“Oh,” Ezra says again, at a loss. Hearing it shouldn’t be a shock, not after the last few games, but of course it still is. He nearly walks into a dog, and Philippe grabs his arm to pull him aside, as the owner murmurs apologies. 

“Are you alright?” Philippe squeezes his arm lightly, before letting go. “You look shell-shocked.”

“I’m fine. It’s just…” Ezra trails off.

“Little bit overwhelmed?” Philippe guesses, and Ezra nods. “Let it sink in and then enjoy yourself,” he advises. “This is a good team, the coaches are going to have your back. Management too, most of the time. Definitely the players. And I’m here if you need anything.”

“You don’t mind?” Ezra asks. 

“Of course not,” Philippe says warmly. “Goalies gotta stick together.”

 

Ezra isn’t sure what he was expecting Philippe’s apartment to look like, but it wasn’t this. “This,” he looks around at the modern architecture, the colorful mismatched furniture, and the possibly famous artwork, “looks like the Brooklyn Museum.”

“You should tell Margot. She picked out everything, arranged it too” Philippe says. “She mostly works in fashion, but she’s got a good eye for interior design too.”

They’re interrupted by thundering footsteps. Philippe crouches down just in time for a small girl to throw herself into his arms yelling “Papa!”. Another girl skids to a stop a few feet shy of Ezra.

Philippe straightens up, still holding the first girl. “Girls, this is Ezra. He’s our new goalie,” he says. “Ezra, my daughters Océane,” with a nod to the older girl, “and Coralie,” looking at the girl in his arms.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ezra says.

Océane regards him seriously for a moment. “You did a good job today, but we like it better when Papa plays.”

Ezra bites back a laugh and sees Philippe wince. “I like watching your Papa play too. He’s one of my favorite goalies.”

Océane smiles, but Coralie says, “You didn’t say Papa right.”

“Hey now, what is our rule about guests?” Philippe asks mildly, shooting Ezra an apologetic look.

“We have to be nice and polite to guests and if they are mean to us, we should tell you and Maman,” Océane recites, and Philippe nods, before she quickly adds, “But we have to figure out if Ezra is worthy of joining the Awesome Goalies Club.”

“Come on,” Philippe smiles, leading their little pack to the kitchen. “Let’s go make dinner and then you can figure out whether or not to induct Ezra into your club, _while you are nice to him_.”

“You must be Ezra,” a woman greets him, looking up from where she’s pouring a pitcher of what looks like a purple smoothie into glasses.

“Mrs. Levesque?” he asks.

“Well, kudos for remembering my last name,” she says, holding out a hand, “but it’s Margot.”

Ezra shakes her hand and she steps around him to kiss Philippe lightly.

“Does he get Awesome Goalie Points for being polite?” Coralie asks, and when Ezra glances down at them, she’s looking up at her sister.

“I think so,” Océane says.

“Well, thank you,” Ezra says.

Margot and Philippe laugh as Océane frowns. “You can’t have more points every time you say thank you.”

“Alright ladies, we need to get dinner started and let your mother relax,” Philippe says, handing Margot one of the purple glasses. “Ezra, regular daiquiri or virgin? And there’s other stuff around here to drink if you don’t like lavender.”

“Regular’s good,” Ezra says, and Philippe hands him the second glass. “Thank you. Can I help with anything?”

“Nope,” Philippe waves him out of the kitchen. “You can go sit down with Margot and tell her how the apartment reminds you of the Brooklyn Museum.”

Margot warmly accepts his compliments on her decorating, laughing when Ezra praises the supremely comfortable couch they’re sitting on, and laughing harder when he tells her about ending up in Queens when he and Zach tried to visit the Brooklyn Museum on their last day off and had to take an Uber to get to the museum before it closed.

“You’ll get the hang of this city. It can be a lot, but it’s a lot of fun too,” she tells him. “Are you liking the team so far?”

“It’s amazing,” he says fervently. “I mean, it’s a lot too, but everyone has been really nice and it’s hockey, you know.”

“You sound exactly like Philippe,” she says. “You’re going to do just fine here.”

“I’m going to try,” he shifts the conversation away from himself, a little uncomfortable being the center of attention. “Thank you for having me over today.”

“You’re welcome.” Margot gives his hand a friendly pat. “I like to meet Philippe’s fellow goalies and the girls have to welcome the newest member of the Awesome Goalie Club.”

“Am I a member already? I thought they were still deciding.”

“Well, I have to leave the formal induction to them, but Philippe likes you and I like you...” 

Ezra smiles, pretty sure he’s bright red. “How did the club get started anyways?” he asks, not sure what else to say.

“A decade ago, Philippe’s first back-up goalie married my best friend and stole her off to San Jose. Their oldest is the same age as Océane, and the two of them came up with it one time when we were visiting,” she replies. “I’ve never figured out more than that.”

“Oh, that’s too bad about your friend moving across the country,” he says, thinking suddenly of André, back in Hartford.

“It’s not so bad. I like San Jose and I don’t mind having an excuse to visit. Now if my cousin ends up moving to Edmonton with Zeps, we’re going to have to convince them to come back here to visit.”

“Have all of the Rangers goalies here married people you know?” 

“Laurie and James are the only ones who got married. Zeps and Zoe are still dating.” Margot grins cheekily. “But if you’re interested, I can think of a few people to introduce you to.”

For a moment, he thinks about telling her that she’ll probably have more luck setting him up with guys than with girls, but the worries that have taken root since his dad planted them keep him quiet. That makes him sad, because Margot probably knows guys who could be interested in dating him – as a professional hockey player, he doesn’t get many chances to meet interested guys.

Something of that must show on his face, because she says, surprisingly gentle, “Hey, only if you’re interested,” and smoothly moves on to telling him about her latest project. By the time Coralie calls them in for dinner, he has discovered that designing clothes can be a lot more interesting than he ever thought.

 

 _Tuesday, October 29, 2019_

“Here’s to your first goal as a New York Ranger, Gabriel Cartwright.” Gabriel raises his glass and resolutely ignores that there’s no one around to toast. They hadn’t won the game, so there was no team-wide celebration. The smaller cohort that had gone out for drinks hadn’t invited him, which was thoughtful of them, all things considered, saving him the trouble of turning them down.

He can celebrate better on his own than he could with guys he barely knows and is better off not getting to know. He can picture them, Hillsy and Ty – Carter Hill and Tyrone Lewis – holding court in a crowded booth at some divey bar, laughing about Gabriel deciding to stay in every night.

They’d tried to include him at first, inviting him to lunches and dinners and drinks and movies with varying groups of teammates, relentlessly friendly in a way that reminded him enough of Chris and Anthony to set his teeth on edge. Although he couldn’t imagine Chris or Anthony going hiking, or inviting a new teammate to come along with them if they ever did.

Ty and Hillsy had roped him into drinks with the team after the home opener and again after a blow-out win against the Penguins. Apparently, leaving after the first round both times had convinced them Gabriel wasn’t fun enough to be worth the bother.

He tops up his glass and turns on the Oilers-Ducks game for background noise. The Oilers are up 3-1 and the commentators are condemning the Ducks for trading two of their best young players last season. He mutes the TV, not wanting to listen to his teammates being complimented, however indirect the compliments may be.

He _knows_ it’s petty, but he does resent Zach and Oscar. They’re settling in so seamlessly – coming in as best friends and effortlessly befriending everyone else, not worrying about hiding anything. Hell, Patches cozied up to them, and Gabriel’s pretty sure he’s scared of people half the time.

When their birthdays come around, the team will certainly do something, even if _something_ means covering their stalls in obnoxious streamers and glitter like they did for Griff’s birthday.

Gabriel’s birthday was two weeks ago and no one said a word – well, his mother left a voicemail on the right day, Amber texted him a week later when she remembered they’d had a birthday, the media made him feel like an idiot for forgetting his own birthday when they asked him about his _birthday assist_ , and Ilya wished him a _happy belated birthday_ after that – but no one else said a word.

When the apartment gets too quiet, he changes the channel to a basketball game. He thinks it’s NCAA, but it could be WNBA.

He scored a goal tonight; he gave GM Fischer one more reason not to swap him out for one of the defensemen tearing it up with the Wolf Pack; he’s going to celebrate, even if celebrating means getting an over-enthusiastic hug from Socks in the locker room and coming home to watch a basketball game and drink a lonely glass of wine or two. 

He’s more relaxed than he would be at a bar, between being able to stretch out on a couch – seriously, the Romans were onto something with the whole reclining at feasts idea – and not having to worry about inevitably being left out of whatever conversations would be going on. Because who would he even talk to? It’s not like anyone wants to talk to him at practice when they don’t have to for drills and review.

Okay, that’s not quite fair, and he must be a little tipsy if he’s even admitting this to himself. Ilya checks in pretty regularly, but Gabriel’s almost positive that’s only because he still feels guilty about Gabriel getting traded or whatever. Maybe he’s worried about Gabriel’s play falling apart again. Another thing to celebrate tonight: making Ilya less worried about him. 

He could tell Ilya that the trade has been good for him, but that would require explaining why he hasn’t been acting like it, and even tipsy, Gabriel knows that’s a shitty idea.

Maybe his goal will calm Oscar down too. He doesn’t seem like an excitable guy, but he’s been like a dog with a bone when it comes to befriending Gabriel. And Gabriel gets it. The best d-partners trust each other with their lives and read each other’s minds, and all that other stupid sappy shit Gabriel hates, even though it does seem to make a difference on the ice. Gabriel hopes he has the causal relationship backwards because he has no intention of letting Oscar get close. They’re going to understand each other as a synchronized, ironclad wall on the ice, not as best friends within the Rangers’ chummy fucking d-corps. 

The rest of them don’t like Gabriel anyways. Well, except for Ilya, who doesn’t seem to know the difference between friendship and pity.

Maybe this goal will be enough to get Oscar and Ilya to leave him alone. His other teammates already have. Gold star, A+, what-fucking-ever to them, for being ahead of the underachievers. Being hated for not hanging out with the team beats being hated for being gay by miles and miles. Lightyears.

His glass is empty before the game ends. Gabriel finds he doesn’t want anymore mind-numbing wine or mindless basketball. He levers himself off the couch, feeling a little off balance. “And here’s to getting a fucking grip, Gabriel Cartwright,” he says, waving his glass. “And here’s to getting a fucking grip, Gabriel Cartwright,” he says, waving his glass.

 

 _Monday, November 18, 2019_

The first game against the Predators is by far the worst game Ezra has ever played. First period isn’t bad – twenty slow, boring, scoreless minutes. Second period starts out okay – a bit chippier, a bit faster, a lot less boring. And then Ezra lets in four goals in three minutes and Coach Myers pulls him. He watches the rest of the game from the bench, sees how Philippe doesn’t let in any more goals. But the rest of the team still can’t make up the four goal deficit. The scoresheet is 4-2 when the final buzzer sounds, and Ezra feels personally responsible.

The media is brutal afterwards. The reporters who celebrated Ezra’s early successes are now asking if he’s ready for the NHL at all. He mechanically recites some canned answers about learning from challenging opponents and counts it as a success when he doesn’t cry or throw up on camera.

Philippe pulls him aside after the reporters have dispersed and gently tugs him over to a quiet corner of the locker room. “You alright, kid?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Ezra grits out, even though his eyes are welling up and his throat is closing off.

Philippe wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him into a tight hug. “Sorry, that was a dumb question.” He steps back after a moment, but keeps a firm, comforting grip on Ezra’s arms. “You will be alright, though. All teams have bad games. This was the team’s bad game, not just yours.”

Ezra makes a protesting noise, not trusting himself to speak.

“No. Look at me,” Philippe says, and waits until Ezra meets his eyes. “Goalies don’t win games and we don’t lose them. We have bad games just like everyone else and then we come back and we do better. Got it?”

Ezra nods.

“Try not to think about the game tonight,” Philippe recommends. “Federov and Myers are probably going to have focused drills and whatnot for us tomorrow, but dwelling on it right now won’t do you any good. Go home and relax and come back rested tomorrow. Okay?”

“I’ll try,” Ezra says, honestly.

Philippe gives him a long look before smiling briefly. “You’re going to be fine, kid. Remember to hydrate too.” He pulls Ezra close again. 

Ezra still feels shaky as he finishes changing into his suit and makes his way to the parking garage. He only remembers that his roommates rode in with him when he sees Oscar and Zach waiting next to his Prius and he wishes he had driven in by himself. He hasn’t talked to either of them since they got off the ice and he really doesn’t want to. 

The loss might not be his fault, but he isn’t sure how his teammates will read it. He never had a game half that terrible during the months Oscar and Zach played on the Wolf Pack with him, so he can’t predict their reactions. 

Ezra wishes nearly constantly that André, or at least one of the other guys he had known well, had stayed up with him, but he doesn’t think missing them has hurt this much since the day he drove André to the airport. He hasn’t felt this alone on a team since his first year in Hartford.

He reaches the car and Oscar just looks at him for a long moment. “Do you want me to drive us home?” he finally asks.

Ezra is about to say no. He wants to say that he can at least manage to drive a car, but his hands are shaking as he pulls his keys out of his pocket and his eyes are still stinging. He almost laughs as the headline flashes through his mind – _Worst Goalie in Rangers History: Loses Game Against Predators, Crashes Car Same Night, Injuring Key Teammates_. “That’d be good,” he says, handing his keys to Oscar and sinking into the backseat.

None of them say anything. Zach and Oscar were both minus-three tonight, and even if the statistic’s probably meaningless, they might be disappointed in themselves and they might be upset with Ezra.

If this had happened last year, he would have called his parents. His mom would have told him she loved him, and she would have handed the phone to his dad. His dad would have reassured him that losses were never the goaltender’s fault, before enumerating the ways he could have done better.

He hasn’t really talked to either of his parents since the season began. He and his mother still text, and she called him once to ask what she should do with some clothes he had forgotten at their house. He asked her to just keep them there for now, but followed it up with endless questions about his favorite taco recipe to keep her on the line, after he realized his dad wasn’t home.

He won’t talk to his dad again until he gets an apology, but even a gruff _you’re alright, goalie_ would probably help right now.

“Patches,” Oscar says when they’re almost home, “you know the game tonight was not your fault, right?”

“We’ll all do better next time,“ Zach adds, turning around to glance at Ezra.

Ezra nods. “I know,” he mumbles. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.

 

Still, when they get home, Ezra heads straight for his room. He barely makes it before he starts crying. He doesn’t slam his door shut, but only catches himself because Oscar and Zach are still in the hallway. He doesn’t want them to think he’s too upset. Or that he’s angry at them. Because they may have both gone minus-three, but he’s not angry at them. Good teams have shitty games, and it follows that Zach and Oscar are good players who had a shitty game. He’s a lot better at applying reason to other people.

André answers on the first ring, fast enough that Ezra wonders if he was waiting on the call as he opens the Skype window. 

“Ezra,” he says, as soon as the video loads, drawing out the two syllables. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s definitely not _your_ fault,” Ezra chokes out, trying to smile.

“It’s not your fault either,” André replies immediately.

“Maybe it’s management’s fault for not keeping you up,” Ezra jokes lamely, then nearly bites his tongue.

“Hey, come on, I am _fine_ with playing in Hartford this year. Which means it is fair game for jokes,” André says. “And this was one game. You should be joking about it.”

“Thanks. I miss you,” Ezra says, still wavery.

“Hey, tell Barnaby to give you a hug for me,” André says, and Ezra looks over at the stuffed dragon on his shelf, just before they’re interrupted by a knock at his door.

Ezra shoots André a pained look. “You should talk to Oscar and Zach,” André says. “Unless there’s a reason you want to avoid them right now. No one’s being a dick, right?”

“No,” Ezra rolls his eyes, and tries for a smile. “My roommates have continued to be the perfectly nice guys we played with last season.” He sets the phone down on his bed, and doesn’t mention they’ve never seen him cry.

It’s Zach, standing in the hallway when he opens the door. “Oh, shit, Patches,” Zach says quickly, then yanks him roughly into a hug.

Ezra stiffens in surprise, then relaxes into it after Zach settles an arm around his shoulders and a hand on the back of his neck. He’s still crying and he can’t seem to stop.

“That was a really shitty game,” Zach says eventually. “We’ll actually score some goals next time. And get you some defensive support.”

“I’ll be better too,” Ezra manages, from where he’s pressed his face against Zach’s shoulder. The angle is a bit awkward because Zach’s shorter than him, but Zach is kind of holding him there, so he figures it’s alright.

“Yeah, you will be.” It sounds like belief, not a threat, the way Zach says it. “You’ve been amazing so far and you were amazing last season and one shitty game doesn't change any of that.”

Logically, Ezra knows all that, but he feels a little better each time he hears it. He wishes he could do more than nod against Zach’s shoulder. 

Once Ezra finally gets his breathing back under control, Zach lets go of him. “Oscar and I were going to put a movie on,” he says, “maybe make popcorn. You should come join us.”

“Yeah, movie night sounds good. Let me say goodbye to André,” Ezra says, still sniffling. Movie night sounds more than good. It sounds like comfort and friendship and not being alone with his thoughts. He gestures towards the phone lying on his bed. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Shit, sorry, did I interrupt something?” Zach asks, craning his neck around Ezra to see the phone.

“Nah. We’d be doing movie night if we were in the same place. I’m not good enough company to talk tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Ezra tells him.

“Alright, cool,” Zach says, and leaves Ezra to say goodbye to André, who assures him he should hang out with his new roommates. Ezra disconnects the call, gives Barnaby a quick hug, and goes to splash water on his face in a futile attempt to make it look less like he’s been crying.

 

When he makes it downstairs, Zach and Oscar have one of the _Fast and Furious_ movies queued up. Zach’s sprawled over half the couch and Oscar is sitting at the other end. Ezra heads for the cool-looking, but surprisingly uncomfortable, armchair they had ordered after Zach saw it on some design website.

“No, come sit with us,” Oscar says, waving his arm vaguely at the tiny empty space on the couch. Zach nods encouragingly.

If they don’t mind being cozy, Ezra is hardly going to be the one to insist on spreading out. There’s a pastel afghan thrown over the back of the cool designer chair. Zach’s grandparents left it, along with a freezer full of food in Tupperware containers, when they visited last weekend. Ezra pulls the afghan off the chair and wraps it around himself before squeezing onto the couch.

Zach starts the movie and Oscar passes Ezra a bowl that’s nearly overflowing with popcorn, then wraps an arm around him, tugging until Ezra leans against him. Ezra’s pretty sure whoever made the popcorn went heavy on the pepper and paprika and light on the butter – it’s not what he was expecting, but it tastes good anyway, and it probably fits in his diet plan. The mug of tea that Oscar hands him after he passes the popcorn off to Zach is good too.

Cuddling is even better. By the time the movie’s halfway through, Ezra is dozing, slumped against Oscar’s chest, his legs tangled up with Zach’s. This isn’t how he wanted tonight to go, but it’s not all that bad. When he tells André he’s okay in the morning, it might even be the truth.

 

_Tuesday, November 26, 2019_

Gabriel supposes he’s been lucky so far this season: he averages more than a flight a week and he’s made it to the end of November without a bad one. And this one isn’t even turbulent enough for the pilot to make them stay in their seats. None of the other guys seem bothered by the occasional bumps and dips, but Gabriel can’t relax, can’t fall asleep or zone out to his headphones, knowing the plane is going to lurch again, worrying that it might plummet to the ground at any moment. Maybe the rest of the team started flying when they were little. Gabriel got on his first flight when he started college, and he still isn’t used to it.

The flight makes him miss Chris, properly miss him, not just want to see him so he can punch him. Because Chris sat with him during rough flights, abandoned his usual seat next to Anthony to distract Gabriel, ignored the way Gabriel clenched his teeth and dug his nails into the armrest, and kept talking.

Thinking about Chris is too much of a distraction. The next time the plane dips, he jumps in his seat hard enough to knock his head on the cabin wall. He’s rubbing his skull when Ty drops into the seat next to him.

“Hey, Carts,” Ty says. “I wanted to talk about the powerplay.”

“I’m sorry Myers subbed me in for Dima,” Gabriel says, “but I do know what I’m doing.”

Ty grimaces for a moment, but then visibly smooths his face out. “I didn’t mean it like that. I like having you on the powerplay and I wanted your thoughts on a few of our plays.”

“Oh, sure,” Gabriel says, taken aback. He doesn’t want to set a precedent of being chatty on planes, but he needs to get his mind off of plane crashes and asshole former teammates.

Ty explains how Gabriel reminds him of a defenseman he played with back in Washington and muses aloud about the possibility of incorporating some of the plays his former team used. Gabriel nods along and doesn’t say much – Ty’s ideas are good, and talking shop isn’t much of a hardship.

They’re in the middle of breaking down the best shots to take against the Wild’s goalie the next time the plane lurches. Gabriel grips the armrest, but otherwise manages to control his reaction. He doesn't miss the way Ty sucks in a breath and closes his eyes for a few long seconds. Ty’s sudden interest in talking to Gabriel makes a lot more sense. He should feel mortified at being recognized as a nervous flyer, but he can’t bring himself to mind. It’s not pity if they both need the distraction.

Unfortunately, they’re going to run out of things to say about the powerplay before they reach Minneapolis, and then things are going to get awkward. Gabriel makes a point of avoiding awkwardness at all costs. He supposes they could discuss the rest of the game, but he and Ty are almost never on the ice at the same time, outside this temporary powerplay unit.

So when Ty pauses in weighing the benefits of switching to an umbrella powerplay, and doesn’t seem to know what to say next, Gabriel breaks in to ask, “Did you bring a pack of cards or anything?”

“No, but I’m sure someone did.” Ty looks as relieved as Gabriel feels.

He leans across the aisle to poke Oscar and ask about cards. Apparently, Oscar and Ezra have a deck somewhere, but they’re not sure whose bag it ended up in.

“Do you guys want to play something too?” Ty asks them, while they’re shuffling around, looking for the cards.

“Go Fish?” Ezra suggests, far more excited than any card game could possibly merit, especially a children’s game. Gabriel had been thinking of poker, but he doesn’t particularly care, so he nods when Ty looks over at him.

Oscar returns, brandishing a pack of cards. “It was in Zach’s bag.”

“Of course.” Ezra stands up, turns to the back of the plane and waves, then makes a heart with his hands.

Zach waves back and flips him off, smiling broadly. Rookies who live together end up with weird habits.

Case in point – Ezra perches on Oscar’s lap instead of going back to his own seat by the window. “I am allowing this only because you are a stringbean goalie,” Oscar tells him, as he winds an arm around Ezra’s waist.

“You two are fucking adorable,” Ty says.

And that’s the thing about this league – for all the homophobia, everyone thinks two guys _acting gay_ is cute. Hugging your teammates, cuddling with them, waxing rhapsodic about their beautiful passes and perfect hair – that gets you fans who think you’re more emotionally developed than the average hockey goon and teammates who call you the glue that holds the locker room together.

Fucking a guy, wanting to fuck a guy, having sucked a guy off and let him hold your hand afterwards more than a decade ago – that gets you traded, at the very best.

Ty snaps Gabriel out of his thoughts by shoving a card to the edge of his tray table. Ezra deals and Ty adds cards to Gabriel’s stack.

“You guys remember how to play, right?” Ezra asks.

Gabriel’s pretty sure he does, but he’s not going to admit he’s played _Go Fish_ recently enough to remember the rules. “I’m not sure I ever knew how,” he says.

Ezra sputters something about proper childhoods, but then smirks and looks at Oscar. “Since they don’t know the rules anyways…”

“Hey, no cheating,” Ty protests. “You do have to tell us the rules.”

“Of course we will tell you the rules,” Oscar says, sounding offended. Then he drops the act and smiles, mischievous. “Patches is going to make up new rules too and we will also tell you those.” That’s how Gabriel finds himself playing a bastardized version of Go Fish with at least twice as many rules as the original game.

Oscar and Ty are predictably competitive, chirping each other and arguing about rules that neither of them remember after each round.

Gabriel holds out for a few rounds, but it’s impossible to not join in, laughing at Ty’s increasingly creative insults and Oscar’s presumably filthy retorts in Swedish, throwing out a few chirps of his own.

Ezra barely joins in the chirping because he’s too busy introducing an ever-changing set of “goalie-rules” that don’t actually seem to give him any sort of advantage. He laughs hysterically when the rest of them become more confused. It’s ridiculous, and it should be annoying, but it isn’t. Gabriel’s horrified when the word _sweet_ comes to mind, but he chalks it up to goalie-induced weirdness and directs a few chirps at Ezra during the next round.

Before he knows it, the pilot is telling them to prepare for landing and he has to admit playing cards beat sitting nervously by himself, even after Ezra declares himself the winner by virtue of having both jokers, and Oscar refuses to let Ty dispute the scoring.

 

When they’re boarding their flight home, Ty pauses by the row Gabriel has already claimed. Gabriel pretends to already be asleep and Ty moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes homophobia, both external and internalized, and some less than responsible drinking. Feel free to message me for more details or let me know if there's anything else you think I should warn for.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge thank you to [Clem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smallmercies/pseuds/smallmercies), [ftchocholic](http://ftchocoholic.tumblr.com/), and [V](http://shearsys.tumblr.com/) for beta reading! And a huge thank you to [Effy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourthlinewinger) for beta reading, as well!

_Tuesday, December 10, 2017_

Ezra watches the Sharks file off the ice and tries to guess which of them are feeling as off-kilter as he is. Some of them must be, because there’s no other way he could have shut them out. He was barely able to focus on the ice, oscillating between numb and furious and hurt, wrenched back to the game when the puck flashed in the periphery of his vision. His teammates played well, but the Sharks have been hot this season, leading the Western Conference by a significant margin for December, so he’s pretty sure it wasn’t just the Ranger’s blue line coming through. 

Before he really registers what’s happening, the whole team is lined up, hugging him, and screaming about his first shutout. He does his best to smile and hug back. He thinks he’s doing alright until Philippe, bringing up the end of the line as usual, pulls him into a tight hug. “Good game. Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” Ezra leans more heavily into the hug and wills Philippe not to ask anything else. He wants to talk about the Hawks player caught screaming homophobic slurs at one of his own teammates during a game yesterday, and he wants to scream about the insultingly unconcerned response from the team and the league. He wants to talk about why the news has left him shaken up, but he doesn’t want to have that conversation here on the ice. He’s not sure if he _should_ have it at all.

It must work, because Philippe says, “Come on kiddo,” and keeps a hand on his back as they skate towards the tunnel. “I am so ridiculously proud of you and we’re all going to go out and celebrate. I’m buying the first round, but then I’ve got to go somewhere quieter to commiserate with James.”

 

The bar they go to is predictably high-end and loud, not Ezra’s typical preference, but an excellent place for forgetting that anything is wrong. Some song with a heavy base line reverberates from the ceiling-mounted speakers, loud enough Ezra can feel it. He can feel the press of people too, as the team squeezes through the crowd to a few empty tables. 

Oscar tugs Ezra into the end of a booth, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Oscar makes a skeptical face when the round of drinks that Philippe promised arrives, some obnoxiously bright layered concoction in red, white, and blue.

“They’re team colors!” Jay yells from across the booth. Then louder, “Here’s to Patches’s first shutout as a Ranger!”

Everyone raises their glasses and shouts their congratulations. Ezra knocks his shot back in one long swallow.

“Yeah Patches!” Oscar shrieks in his ear. Zach leans over the back of the booth to shout in his face. Some other time, Ezra would really enjoy being at the center of a team celebration like this. Right now, it’s practically claustrophobic – the waves of noise and people and activity crashing around him, leaving him either crushed tight or stretched thin enough to snap.

People keep buying him drinks, both his teammates and strangers. He’s not sure if the strangers are fans or if they’re just locals who have been ambushed by his tipsy teammates, singing Ezra’s praises. Either way, the alcohol helps ease the tension strumming through him.

He’s had a few drinks too many when Griff and Robs drag him onto a crowded dance floor and push him towards a group of women he thinks might be grad students from NYU. He dances with them, or at least sways around while they take turns holding onto him. At some point, one of them squeezes his ass with both hands and leans against his shoulder. She might be licking his neck.

He goes with it, until one of her friends grabs both their arms. “Lou, we should get you some water, maybe time to call it a night.”

Lou pulls away enough to say, “Nah, I’m fine,” then tries to tuck herself under Ezra’s arm. Ezra internally agrees with her. They _are_ doing fine.

Her friend interjects again. “Come on, Lou, I think you’re both wasted.”

Lou steps back. “Aww, okay.” She reaches up and cups Ezra’s cheek. “Hey, take care of yourself. You’re really cute.”

Ezra tips forward until his forehead is resting against hers. They can be wasted together.

Lou topples over then and a few people reach to catch them, probably her friends. “Come on,” someone says. “Let’s get you back to your friends.”

“It’s okay. Lou’s nice,” Ezra says.

“Why, thank you,” Lou drawls. “Kara, put my number in his phone. And skater boy, get home safe.”

Kara steers Ezra back to one of the booths the team has claimed and he sinks into it. He thinks she says something over his head, maybe to Oliver or Hillsy, but he closes his eyes and doesn’t bother figuring out who’s talking or what they’re saying. 

 

He opens his eyes when someone shakes his shoulder roughly, and immediately clamps a hand over his mouth at the onslaught of nausea. 

“Ezra?” That sounds like Zach. “Oh shit, come on, we’re going outside. Don’t puke yet.” That’s definitely Zach pulling him up and tugging him through the people milling around the bar. Zach stops moving once they get outside and away from the doorway.

“Ezra? Patches? You feeling alright?” he asks. Ezra thinks Zach might be a bit drunk too.

Ezra tries to say that he’s alright, but he can’t get his mouth to form the words. The street is tilting under his feet and his stomach is definitely not okay.

“Hey, there’s a trash can right here,” Zach tells him. The trash can turns out to be really convenient. 

When Ezra straightens up, Oscar’s standing next to him with a bottle of water. Oscar uncaps the bottle and passes it to Ezra, wrapping an arm around his waist as he sways. “Drink slowly. Zach is getting us a car.” 

Ezra feels exhausted, and a bit floppy. He remembers wanting to feel happy, but he can’t remember why. At least he doesn’t feel unhappy.

 

_Wednesday, December 11, 2017_

Ezra wakes up sweaty, his mouth sticky, as though he fell into a post-lunch, post-practice nap without showering or brushing his teeth first. He rolls over and the immediate dull throb in his head and churning of his stomach bring back flashes of the night before. He buries his head under his pillow in a futile attempt to shut them out. Who celebrates a shutout win by getting so drunk he has to be returned to his teammates like a wayward child and then pukes on a Manhattan street corner?

That’s when he remembers he wasn’t celebrating. He wants to scream, but screaming would hurt his head and bother his roommates. He’s pretty sure they already cut their nights short to bring him home.

He should apologize. He should probably drink some water, take some painkillers, and maybe eat something too, in the interest of not dying at practice this afternoon. There are two empty bottles of Gatorade on his nightstand, which is good because he did _something_ right last night, but bad because he’s going to have to get out of bed to hydrate now.

He grits his teeth as he stumbles out to the bathroom. He can hear people moving around downstairs and he strains to listen, relieved when he only hears Oscar and Zach. He’s friends with Oscar’s girlfriend and he doesn’t mind meeting the girls who stay over with Zach, especially because they usually inspire Zach to make pancakes. But he doesn’t feel up to facing any more people than he absolutely has to.

Ezra winces his way downstairs, in search of cold Gatorade and the Advil they inexplicably keep in the kitchen instead of the bathroom. He makes it as far as the kitchen table before he sinks into a chair and pillows his pounding head on his arms.

Oscar and Zach are both looking at him when he props his head up, Oscar sitting across the table and Zach standing at the stove, glancing between Ezra and the stovetop.

Zach breaks the silence. “Ah man, I’ve got celebratory pancakes here, but maybe we’ll start with celebratory water? Or orange juice?”

Ezra nods, then regrets it when his head throbs. “Orange juice, maybe. Advil.” He thinks about standing up to get them and his head protests preemptively. He’ll get up in a minute.

“Stay there.” Oscar must be able to read his mind.

Ezra blinks blearily as Oscar sets a glass of juice and a bottle of pills in front of him. “Thanks.” 

“Of course,” Oscar says. “Maybe we will party a little less the next time you get a shutout.”

“We? I’m pretty sure that was all me. Sorry about you guys having to bring me home. I didn’t mean to make you leave early. Thanks too, I guess.” Ezra swallows a few pills with a mouthful of juice and tries to choke down his embarrassment too.

“Don’t worry about it. We’ve all had those nights.” Zach looks away from the pancakes he’s flipping. “Oh hey, this one chick gave me her friend’s number to give you because apparently her friend wanted to make out with you when you were more sober.”

Ezra groans and covers his face with his hands.

“Seriously, it was fine. They both thought you were adorable.” Zach’s laughing a little, amused but not mean.

Ezra groans again, because seriously, _adorable_? He’s a professional athlete.

“You do not have to call her back if you are not interested. Maybe she is not your type.” Oscar looks at him pointedly, as though he’s not sure Ezra realizes this.

Ezra doesn’t say anything for a long moment and Zach jumps in. “Okay, feel free to tell me to fuck off, but I’ve got to ask, what _is_ your type? I don’t think I’ve seen you look twice at anyone.”

Ezra closes his eyes against the morning’s determination to get worse and worse. Talking to someone about this would help, and his roommates are sitting here, basically offering to listen, but he’s not _certain_ he can trust them. They’re his teammates and he thinks they’re becoming his friends, but maybe he’s putting too much faith in a good feeling. Maybe his dad is right about NHL players.

Because Anthony Cuomo has teammates too. Noah Feldman _is_ his teammate, and Cuomo screamed homophobic slurs at him, slurs that hit painfully close to home for Ezra, slurs that are never justified, and certainly aren’t justified by a bad defensive zone turnover. And maybe Feldman isn’t gay or bi or anything else, but maybe he is. Maybe he came out to his teammates and that’s how they reacted. Ezra’s stomach twists into knots. 

“I’m gonna take that as a _fuck off_ ,” Zach says cheerfully. “Forget I asked.”

And that – that’s not what Ezra wants. He’s scared, scared that any teammate could react like Cuomo, but these last few months of not having a single guy on his team who knows he likes guys have absolutely sucked. If he doesn’t say anything now, he’s going to regret it as soon as the moment passes.

Ezra swallows down his fear. “My type’s mostly guys.” He stares at the spot on the floor they scuffed moving the kitchen table as the silence stretches on to an eternity. He could probably hear a pin drop two floors up.

“Oooh shit, I’m sorry,” Zach finally says.

The bottom of Ezra’s stomach drops out, but Oscar’s the one who asks, voice reassuringly skeptical, “You are sorry?”

“Not that he likes dudes. Ezra, come on, that’s not a problem. I’m sorry we’ve all been throwing girls at you while your forever boy’s back in Hartford.”

“My forever boy?” Ezra’s not sure what Zach’s talking about, but at least it doesn’t sound bad.

“Your boyfriend, your boo.” Zach clarifies absolutely nothing, but Oscar nods enthusiastically, smiling broadly.

Oscar sobers. “André can stay here anytime. I am sorry if he stayed away because you did not feel like you could trust us.”

Ezra laughs and doesn’t stop until he’s almost crying and his head feels horrific. His roommates are staring at him with matching worried expressions.

Ezra catches his breath. “André and I aren’t dating. Never have been, never wanted to. But I am definitely telling him you called him my _boo_.”

“Oh.” Oscar looks disappointed.

Zach does too, but he quickly brightens. “Well, the staying over part applies to any guy. If you’re dating someone else – wait, are you dating someone else?”

Ezra’s head is spinning from the emotional whiplash as much as the hangover at this point. “No.” 

“Do you want a boyfriend? Or do you want to date? Or hook-up?” Oscar asks.

“Or all of the above?” Zach adds, taking a seat next to Oscar.

“Are those going to burn?” Ezra waves a hand at the pancakes still on the stovetop.

“Shit!” Zach jumps up and flips one of the pancakes. “They already did.” He dumps them into the trashcan under the sink. “I’ll make more whenever you actually feel like eating.” He sits back down. “Alright, you should tell us what you want and we can figure out how to make that happen.”

Ezra would be mortified by the scrutiny if he weren’t so relieved to finally be talking about this. “I don’t know that I can date a guy if I’m not out to the team. I’d hate hiding someone I cared about. I’d probably be really bad at lying to everyone. And it wouldn’t be fair to whoever I was dating.”

“So you want to come out to the team, or you do not want to date yet?” Oscar asks.

“I want to come out to the team,” Ezra blurts out. “I was out to a lot of the guys in Hartford and it was really good. And yeah, dating would be really nice.”

Silence reigns for a long moment, before Ezra takes in his roommates’ pinched expressions.

“Oh my god. This is not about you. You joined the team last January. And I haven’t told anyone else on the Rangers yet.” He would have told them sooner if his dad had left well enough alone this summer, but he’s not going to talk about that now.

“Sorry,” Zach laughs sheepishly. “Have none of the guys you were out to in Hartford been called up?”

“A few of them were called up and traded. Or traded, then called up. None of them are on the team now.” Ezra has wished this wasn’t the case more than once over the past few months.

“So you are starting fresh with this team,” Oscar says.

“Well, I think Philippe’s guessed, or more like Margot guessed and they talked about it. And now I’ve told you.”

“Have they officially adopted you yet?” Zach asks.

Ezra laughs. Océanne recently declared him her fourth favorite member of the Awesome Goalies Club, only behind Papa and the Riveters goalies, because _he’s like her super old brother and the other NHL goalies in the club are only like uncles_. He’ll save that story for later.

“Three teammates is not so bad for a start,” Oscar says. “How are you going to tell everyone else?” 

“I don’t know.” Ezra suddenly feels drained again. He still barely knows most of the guys on the team. The idea of talking to all of them is overwhelming. The idea of making some sort of locker room announcement is even worse.

“Okay, why don’t we table this for now? You can think about it some more and we’ll help you figure it out and then we can help you tell people or whatever, if you want.” Zach stands up. “But you look less green and we need double celebratory pancakes.”

Pancakes sound mostly okay now, but, “Double celebratory?”

“For your shutout and for coming out.” Zach walks around the table and wraps his arms around Ezra’s shoulders. 

Ezra tips his head back to smile up at him. “Thanks.”

Oscar steps in to hug Ezra when Zach steps away. “Thank you for telling us. Next time we play the Hawks, I will check Cuomo very hard into the boards.”

“Cuomo? What does he have to do with – oh fuck – that wasn’t all celebratory drinking last night, was it? I can punch him. Or you can punch him and I’ll take the penalty for you. And if you ever want to talk about how half the shit the league says sucks...” Zach brandishes a spatula covered in burnt pancake crumbs. 

“Let’s stick with clean checks, at least until our penalty kill’s a little more solid,” Ezra laughs. He wasn’t sure they had even noticed the news from the Hawks yesterday. The morning is taking a definite turn for the better, even if his hangover isn’t going away anytime soon. 

Knowing Zach and Oscar, it’s not like, deep-down, he expected another reaction from them when he came out, but expecting and knowing are a world apart. His stomach is slowly unknotting.

 

Ezra changes into a clean t-shirt and sweats, shoots a quick text to André – _came out to the roomies, went well. Skype today?_ – and tries to do something with his hair, which only proves it’s a lost cause until he showers.

André replies _yes - after I get home?_ and follows it up with about a million happy emojis. Ezra smiles at the emojis, then frowns at the reminder that it’s past eleven and he’s lucky _he_ doesn’t have practice this morning. 

He sends back _yes!!!!!_ and then he hears Zach holler, “Pancakes are ready!”

Ezra spares a moment to hope the neighbors aren’t sleeping in – it’s a Wednesday, so it’s probably fine – as he and Oscar clamor down the stairs.

Zach sets three plates, a carton of strawberries, and a tall stack of fluffy pancakes on the table. They all dig in. 

Ezra sighs in appreciation and no one says anything for a few minutes. He might be eating a bit more slowly than normal, but the pancakes are still good.

“Hey,” Zach eventually says, “we got really sidetracked, but do you want that girl’s number?”

Ezra thinks about it. She seemed nice, and cute, even though she wasn’t really his type. He wouldn’t mind getting lunch with her, but even if he could tell a stranger he was mostly not into girls, there’s no way that wouldn’t be awkward. And hurtful. “Nah. Not really my type.”

“So no girls?” Zach asks.

“Not never, just rarely.” Ezra dated Olivia in juniors, and he’d genuinely been into her, even as he realized she was the exception, not the rule. “I’m bi, but I’ve liked maybe three girls ever.”

Oscar frowns around a mouthful of pancakes, but it seems thoughtful, not dubious. Ezra braces himself for a barrage of well-meaning, but intrusive questions about exactly who he likes and whether or not he _really_ likes women. When Oscar finally swallows, he simply smiles and says “That makes sense.”

He takes another few bites and adds, “I think I am a little bit in love with these pancakes.” 

“Does Matilda know she’s sharing your passion with my cooking?” Zach asks.

“She is also passionate about your cooking.” Oscar leers.

“Oh fuck you!” Zach waves a forkful of pancake in Oscar’s face. “Leave my pancakes out of whatever kinky sex you two are getting up to!”

They devolve into chirping each other and everything feels normal. Better than normal. 

 

_Wednesday, December 11, 2017_

When Gabriel gets to the front of the line at Dunkin Donuts, the cashier – Maggie today – calls out, “Erica, your favorite customer is here!”

Erica is Gabriel’s favorite barista too, and not only because she makes a mean latte. She had, thankfully, been the only one to recognize him when he first came to the Dunkin Donuts across the street from his apartment back in September. She’s an avid hockey fan and she had been quietly gleeful when he showed up. She follows the Rangers religiously, even though the Riveters are her favorite New York City team.

Erica is quiet when she hands Gabriel his latte today. He’d been expecting her to say something congratulatory about their shutout win last night, so the silence is jarring. “Are you alright?” he asks. It figures that her shitty day would coincide with his own. 

“Did you see the news?” Erica asks. Gabriel racks his brain for recent local tragedies and comes up short. “Hockey news? From Chicago?” she clarifies, and Gabriel feels his palms go sweaty. Erica isn’t upset, per se, she’s questioning whether or not she still likes Gabriel.

“Not all of us are like that,” he says carefully. Her face doesn’t soften, and yeah, he realizes, too late, how that sounds – not all of us are dumb enough to shout our homophobia to the rafters when there are microphones around. 

“I, um, well, I mean,” Gabriel takes a breath and considers how much to say, then realizes he won’t lose anything here by being honest. “I don’t think anyone should ever use that kind of language and I’d love to see the NHL be more inclusive. I know I’m not the only guy who thinks that way.” Ilya, at least, agrees with him, and if it makes a fan feel better to think Gabriel and Ilya are in the majority, it’s a white lie at worst.

“Yeah? You’re one of the good ones, Cartwright.” Erica smiles and Gabriel smiles back, relieved, as he takes his latte.

He slips a twenty dollar bill in the tip mug before he leaves, not sure whether it’s an apology or a thank you.

 

None of Gabriel’s teammates seem to be having a shitty day, unless you count suffering from last night’s revelry as having a shitty day. Gabriel emphatically does not. It’s like no one gives a fuck that their league is full of homophobes. He feels stupidly let down.

Patches especially looks the worse for wear, and it grates – the kind of entitlement it takes for a rookie to show up to an _NHL_ practice hungover, and the kind of indulgence it takes for the coaches to overlook the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Some things never change. All coaches have their favorites who can do no wrong. 

When they hit the ice, Patches looks off, his typically lightning-fast reflexes a hair too slow. Gabriel expected as much and is prepared to ignore it, but Oscar has other ideas.

Apparently, he’s _concerned_ about Patches, concerned enough to be skating over to his crease between half the drills.

Yesterday, Gabriel got a stark reminder that a guy he once considered a good friend hates people like him, and that the rest of the league couldn’t give fewer fucks. Today, he got on the ice and he fucking compartmentalized.

Gabriel’s focusing on practice because playing good hockey is more important than worrying about his personal issues. His d-partner has clearly decided a hungover friend takes precedence.

The next time Patches lets in one of Oscar’s shots, Gabriel doesn’t bother holding his tongue. “Come on! Try to look like you belong here!”

Patches doesn’t really react, but Oscar stops him as they’re skating away from the goal. “What are you angry for?” 

“He _is_ our starter, right? Can’t have a starting goaltender who plays like he’s in juniors,” Gabriel replies shortly. He’s pretty sure Patches hears him.

Whatever Oscar may say in response gets drowned out by Coach Myers yelling corrections at them.

Patches doesn’t get any better, Oscar doesn’t get any less distracted, and Gabriel doesn’t get any less frustrated. So he keeps yelling at both of them. It’s cathartic in a way that makes him understand why Anthony spent so much time screaming at the rest of the Hawks. Understanding Anthony, however obliquely, pisses him off more.

“Starting to think you’re only here because your daddy bribed your way in!” he yells after Patches lets in a particularly soft shot. The barb is a shot in the dark – Ezra’s dad was an AHL goalie, which gives him more of a hockey pedigree than most of the team, but a flailing, five-year career bouncing around the minors isn’t _much_ of a legacy.

It must land though, because Patches flinches hard enough to nearly topple backwards into his net. 

Gabriel feels momentarily guilty until Oscar rounds on him. “What the hell?”

“What the hell is wrong with your bestie’s game today?” Gabriel counters before skating off.

There are only ten minutes left in practice. Gabriel spends them pointedly ignoring all of his teammates.

 

He isn’t surprised when Ilya corners him after he changes back into street clothes. Gabriel had even been expecting it after the game yesterday, until he overheard Ilya saying something about skipping out on shutout celebrations because one of his kids was sick. 

Gabriel thought about rushing through his post-practice routine – he probably could have been halfway home before Ilya finished showering – but Ilya’s not going to let this go without a discussion. It’s better to head it off before Ilya works himself up to being properly distressed about it.

He goes easily when Ilya throws an arm around his shoulders and says, “Let’s walk and talk.” Walking and talking sounds better than staying in the locker room and talking.

Ilya waits until they reach an empty corridor. “You saw the news about Anthony.”

“I saw that he’s still a homophobic dick and no one cares. You know – I don’t know that I care either at this point.”

“I was certainly disappointed.” Ilya sounds it, too.

“Pretty sure you’re the only one. The rest of the world decided that’s part of the game a long time ago.”

“I am sure not everyone thinks that. And even if they do, it does not make them right.”

“Well, good luck getting the rest of the NHL to care.” Gabriel hates that Ilya thinks _he_ cares about this – being gay does not mean Gabriel has to care. He hates even more that Ilya is right.

“If you ever want to talk about it, I am happy to listen.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Gabriel snaps.

Ilya stops walking and turns to face Gabriel. “You need to stop this.”

“Stop what?” Gabriel is honestly confused.

“Lashing out at everyone.”

“It’s not your business whether or not I get along with the rest of the team. It’s great that you’re friends with everyone here, but I don’t have to be.” Gabriel knows he’s deflecting – Ilya obviously doesn’t care about whether or not Gabriel has _friends_ , but maybe Ilya will leave him alone if he’s abrasive enough. 

“You are correct. It is not my business if you choose to isolate yourself, although I’d rather you didn’t, and I am happy to talk if you want. However, I am an alternate captain and it _is_ my business when you spend half of practice yelling at your teammates and saying things that have no business being brought onto the ice.”

Gabriel did yell quite a bit today, but, “Come on! Patches comes in hungover as fuck and Stromey’s too busy babying him to pay attention to half our drills and I’m not allowed to be pissed? Really, Socks?”

Ilya’s expression goes tight. “I am sure the coaching staff talked to Ezra and you should talk to Oscar if you want to. He is your defensive partner – it is your job to challenge each other to be better. But you have to be kind. Only yell at your partner if your partner messes up big things and does not fix them for a long time. I think that is not what happened today.”

“Fine. I’ll leave the rookies alone,” Gabriel spits. “Happy now?”

Ilya sighs. “Not really, but I think it will have to be enough.”

And what the fuck? Gabriel really isn’t in the mood for disappointment and mind games. “You said who I was friends with wasn’t any of your business, so how about I leave the rookies alone and you get off my back?”

Ilya sighs again, less tired and more frustrated. “This is what I meant when I said you lash out at everyone.”

“Sorry, fuck…” Gabriel didn’t come into this conversation meaning to piss off the one guy on the team who still gives a fuck about him.

“Go home,” Ilya says, gentle. “Pull yourself together. Come back tomorrow and be a team player.”

“Yeah, alright.” Gabriel turns and heads back to the locker room without waiting for Ilya to follow. 

 

_Wednesday, December 11, 2017_

Ezra walks into Philippe and Margot’s apartment with a pit growing in his stomach, almost as though his hangover he’d been battling all practice is finally winning out. He absently notes the way it smells like Christmas, like the same mix of pine and spice that wafted through his grandma’s house every winter, which would probably seem nice if he could focus on anything beyond his breathing.

Asking Philippe if they could talk had seemed like a good idea after practice, with Oscar and Zach flashing him thumbs up from across the equipment room while they were cooling down. Agreeing to dinner with him and Margot at their place had seemed reasonable when Philippe said the girls were staying over with Max’s kids. Max had even agreed everyone would be happy to have them spend one more night.

Now though, he feels like the walls are closing in on him as he sinks into the armchair Coralie always directs him to. Luckily, its usual occupant is elsewhere, so he doesn’t have to negotiate seating with Patches-the-cat.

“Ezra?” He looks up, and Margot’s standing in front of him, holding out a steaming mug of hot chocolate. “I know you’ve got your diet plan, but it’s almost Christmas.”

Ezra takes the mug and watches as Margot folds herself onto the couch next to Philippe. He realizes he’s still wearing his coat when he notices that Philippe’s in a t-shirt. He buys himself a few moments by slipping his coat off and draping it over an arm of the chair, carefully balancing the hot chocolate. He doesn’t feel any calmer afterwards.

“Hey, Ezra, look at me,” Philippe says softly, then waits until Ezra meets his eyes. “Whatever you want to tell us, we’re not going to be upset.”

“We care about you a lot,” Margot adds.

Ezra wraps both his hands around the mug, takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that he’s almost definitely not telling Philippe and Margot anything they haven’t already guessed. He’s pretty sure they know he likes guys, and Philippe still invited him over for dinner, Margot still made him hot chocolate.

He takes another deep breath, keeps his eyes on the sculpted clay nativity scene on the coffee table. “I’m bi.” He’s not sure they could hear him, so he tries to speak up when he adds, “You know, bisexual.”

He stares at the miniature Mary standing next to her miniature donkey and clutches his hot chocolate. The central heating kicks on, jarring enough in the silence that he nearly drops the mug.

“Ezra, come here.” Philippe’s walked halfway around the coffee table and he’s standing there, smiling, with his arms out. 

Ezra takes one more deep breath, sets his mug down on the side table, and walks into the hug.

Philippe wraps one arm around his shoulders and one around his waist, and holds him there. “Thank you for telling us.”

Ezra nods against his shoulder, throat too tight to trust himself to say anything.

Philippe eventually lets go and guides Ezra to a spot on the couch beside Margot. 

Margot hugs him as soon as he sits down. “We’re always going to care about you.”

“What made you decide to tell us now?” Philippe sits down on his other side, close enough that they’re all squished together – comfortable, but cozy.

Ezra knows Philippe’s expecting him to say something about the asshole Hawks player, but right now, in this cocoon of love and support, that’s the last thing he wants to talk about.

“Um, I may have gotten a bit drunk last night, like maybe more than a little. But then I woke up with a hangover and came out to Oscar and Zach and they were really amazing about it, and Zach made us strawberry pancakes.”

Philippe and Margot burst out laughing on either side of him. Ezra buries his face in his hands, suddenly feeling like a dumb kid. Why did he think an embarrassing anecdote would be better than a depressing conversation?

“We’re not laughing at you. Promise.” Margot ruffles his hair, which really doesn’t help with feeling like a kid. “It’s just, um, wow, ten years ago now, I did the same thing. Woke up spectacularly hungover and told Philippe I really missed having sex with my best friend. I told him I wanted to revisit our discussion about monogamy and maybe have a threesome. He made me raspberry crepes.”

Ezra looks back and forth between them, feeling like his head’s on some sort of a swivel joint. 

“I’m bisexual too,” Margot says.

“And we have a fair bit of experience with relationships the NHL brass may not quite approve of,” Philippe adds.

“Oh, um, thanks for telling me too,” Ezra says, as Margot smooths his hair down.

“I really hope you feel welcome on the team.” Philippe rests a hand between his shoulder blades. “I’m glad to hear that coming out to your roommates was a good experience. You should know you can trust the vets as well. The Rangers are a good team.”

Ezra tries to believe it. He should be able to. He’s sitting here between Margot and Philippe, knowing he has their unwavering support. His phone has been buzzing non-stop in his pocket for the last hour, and he knows it has to be mostly André and Zach and Oscar, letting him know how much they care about him.

But he can’t quite manage to shake the words, the feeling, from Carts at practice today, from his dad this summer. 

“Ezra.” Philippe squeezes his neck gently, then continues, as though he’s reading Ezra’s mind. “I’m not sure what Cartwright said today, but I can assure you he doesn’t speak for the team.”

“He said, that um, I, I was um, _an entitled daddy’s boy_ , that I wouldn’t be here if my dad hadn’t played in the NHL.”

“That’s most certainly not true,” Margot says decisively. “You’re in the NHL because you’ve worked hard and you’re very talented.”

“Yeah?” Ezra hates how thin his voice sounds.

“Of course,” Philippe says. “I know you’ve trained with your dad and I’m sure he’s helped you, but it’s your hard work that got you here.”

“I really hate training with him.” The words scrape Ezra’s throat like skates over fresh ice, leaving him gouged and unable to hide it.

He can feel Philippe startle at that, but he soldiers on. “He told me I shouldn’t come out. He said I should date my best friend, or at least pretend to, even though we’d both hate that, you know. I was already out to half the guys in Hartford then. He didn’t care. He only cares about how I reflect on him.” 

Ezra realizes he’s crying when Margot pulls him into a hug and lets him sob against her shoulder. She strokes his hair, his neck, his shoulders. He gradually gets his breathing back under control and pulls away. “Sorry.” He clears his throat against the roughness.

“No need to be sorry,” Margot says, as Philippe hands him a box of tissues.

She gives Ezra time to blow his nose and get himself together before asking, “Are you alright?”

“Mostly? My dad’s an asshole, and I’m not looking forward to training with him again, but the team’s been really good so far? Except for Carts, but he’s a dick to everyone, and today wasn’t about me liking guys or anything. I’m actually kind of excited to come out to the rest of the guys?” Ezra should probably be making statements, instead of framing _everything_ as a question. He leans into Philippe, too wrung out to worry about it.

“How about this?” Philippe squeezes his shoulder. “We make sure things continue to be good with the team, especially as you come out, you talk to us if anything isn’t good, or talk to Oscar or Zach if you’re more comfortable with that, and we talk some more about offseason training later. Your dad’s not the only goalie coach out there.”

“Yeah,” Ezra says, and then, when that feels inadequate, “That sounds good.”

“Good.” Margot pats his head. “It’s leftovers for dinner tonight, so I’m going to go reheat those and make sure the guest room’s made up. We can get you fed and you can sleep here tonight if that sounds alright.”

“Thank you. That sounds amazing.”

 

_Thursday, December 12, 2017 through Saturday, December, 14, 2017_

Gabriel claims his usual seat in the back of the room during video review. The spot’s not only good for avoiding conversation, but also good for watching the rest of the team, for figuring out where everyone stands.

He’s a few minutes early, so he screws around on his phone as the rest of the guys trickle in. Ilya and Max are in the middle of a whose-kids-are-the-cutest contest, masked as mutual appreciation for each other’s offspring. Stromey and Wins show up without their third roommate, which is unusual. Ty, Dima, and Robs look reluctant to leave their soccer ball outside the room, but Coach Sullivan has already yelled at the team once this year about respecting expensive video equipment. 

And _there’s_ Patches. He comes in with Shep, so that makes sense at least, except Shep’s got an arm around his shoulders and he keeps it there as they sit down. Apparently, the goalies are going to cuddle through video review today. Goalies are weird.

And yeah, goalies _are_ weird, but Gabriel can’t shake the thought of there being a reason that Patches leans into Shep even as Coach Sullivan starts the film, that Shep keeps his arm where it is. Maybe Ezra was more upset about Gabriel yelling at him than he’d let on yesterday. Maybe he ran crying to Lavoie about it. Gabriel should have kept his mouth shut, or at least yelled at him for being hungover, rather than making up shit he didn’t believe, just to make sure it hurt. Calling his own goalie an entitled brat who shouldn’t have made it out of juniors probably _was_ crossing a line.

The thought nags at him all day, casting a guilty shade over everything he tries to focus on. It’s not like there’s much he can do about it – before yesterday, he’d barely spoken five sentences to Ezra. Apologizing would only make things fucking uncomfortable for both of them. By the time Gabriel’s driving to the airport for a late afternoon flight to Florida, he’s convinced himself it’ll be alright if he goes back to leaving Ezra alone.

But he needs to do something to settle the guilty buzz thrumming under his skin. Ilya might be the answer. He was a dick to Ilya yesterday too, and he doesn’t have a good excuse for not apologizing to him. So he’ll man up and apologize and it won’t be a big deal.

He considers sitting next to Ilya on the plane for about half a second before dismissing it as a terrible idea. The flight to Sunrise is long enough that even after a heartfelt apology, they’ll have time to fill. And he knows Ilya will want to discuss the evolving clusterfuck that the Hawks’ response to Anthony’s comments has become. Gabriel still refuses to care about it.

Besides, Ilya and Dima usually watch Russian films during the flights and it would be inconsiderate to make Ilya miss out, simply so Gabriel can apologize for being an ass. He always sits by Ilya at team dinner anyways. He can apologize after that.

 

Of course, when he goes down for dinner, Ilya is sitting across from Shep, who looks up, instantly pinning Gabriel with a laser-sharp glare. Gabriel hastily backs out of the dining room before Ilya can turn around and see him. He’d forgotten how intense Shep could be when he was facing you down.

The only experience he’s had facing Shep down is as an opposing player, and honestly, he’s pretty sure protecting your rookie trumps protecting your net. Not that Gabriel’s ever had a rookie, or that Chicago could be bothered to keep enough vets around on more than two-year contracts for him to ever be anyone’s rookie, but he’s heard how guys can get when it comes to the younger players they’re mentoring. And Philippe Lavoie turns fierce when a puck gets anywhere near his net, so Gabriel has no desire to find out what he’d do to someone who makes his rookie cry.

Gabriel slips into the other end of the dining room and grabs a seat next to Hillsy and Ty and Griff. They talk enough that he can keep his head down and nod occasionally without things being awkward. 

He can talk to Ilya tomorrow after practice.

 

The hockey gods, or whoever’s in charge of this shit, must not be too interested in Gabriel apologizing, because by the time Gabriel gets out of the shower after practice, the rookies have the captains cornered. He takes his time getting dressed, figuring he can catch Ilya after he sorts the rookies out. 

He’s twitchy, even as he’s dawdling, rethinking what he wants to say to Ilya. Because he really was an ass, and that’s not who he is. He needs Ilya to know this. No matter what the rest of the team thinks of him, he has this one guy who still cares about him – who knows that he’s gay and _still_ cares about him. He can’t ruin that. 

He’s tugged out of his thoughts by a burst of noise. Apparently, Hillsy and Schmidty can’t agree on a place for lunch because they each have a spot they’re passionately fond of. Gabriel wasn’t aware there were two restaurants to be more than ambivalent towards in Sunrise.

Now that he’s paying attention, it sounds like the captains are getting lunch with the rookies. It’s definitely not a team thing.

He’ll have to talk to Ilya on the flight back.

 

They win the game, which is expected, but still nice, and most of the guys go out, which is also expected. Gabriel doesn’t – he hasn’t been out with the team, hasn’t been out at all in over a month, and it’s fucking depressing. At least he has time to consider what he’ll say to Ilya tomorrow, because now he needs more than an apology, he needs something to talk about for a two-hour flight, something that Ilya will enjoy talking about enough to forget about Chicago.

Talking about what worked for the defense tonight will probably eat up a decent chunk of time. And Gabriel genuinely wants to hear Ilya’s thoughts on the subject. Ilya and Nevins are the top pair and they’re skating at least twenty-three minutes a night, topping out close to thirty against some of the tougher teams. If Gabriel ever wants to move up past third d-pair, it wouldn’t hurt to listen to what Ilya thinks of how he’s playing.

Asking about Ilya’s kids is always good for at least half an hour of conversation, maybe an hour if he asks about whatever theatre production they’re in at the moment, but it usually leads to a dinner invitation. And then Gabriel has to find a way to say no, ideally without making things strained, which is a really tall order. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he doesn’t want to say no this time. He likes Zhanna Sokolov – he remembers thinking she was as much of an outsider as him, back when he was figuring out his place on the Hawks and she was the only foreign wife or girlfriend – and their kids are tolerable. It would be really nice to get out of his apartment for an evening.

And so that’s it. He’ll ask Ilya if he can sit with him on the flight, apologize to Dima for interrupting Russian movie time, apologize to Ilya for being a dick, and then ask Ilya about the Ranger’s defense and his kids. Simple.

 

Gabriel boards the plane the next day and immediately sees Ilya sitting with Oliver, heads bent together over some serious conversation. Whatever it is, he doubts they would appreciate him interrupting it for a very belated apology. 

He sinks into a row of his own towards the back of the plane. He jams his headphones on right away, drowning out both the chatter of his teammates and the dawning realization that it only felt like Ilya was available all the time because Gabriel rarely wanted to talk to him. Now that he does want to talk to him, well, Ilya seems to be plenty busy with the rest of their teammates. Gabriel’s the only one who isn’t talking to anyone else.

The flight’s bumpy, and being on edge about his failure to talk to Ilya, even though maybe Ilya doesn’t want to talk to him at all, makes it even worse. He carves crescents into the armrest every time the plane lurches, and he thinks Ty might come over, but he and Hillsy are absorbed in some video game with Wins and Patches.

Well, Gabriel has a lot of experience taking care of himself. He should have known better than to expect anything from his teammates just because Ty was nice that one time.

 

_Saturday, December 21, 2017_

Gabriel has known a few guys who looked for drama in the locker room so hard they started imagining it. Back in college, Keith always thought someone was spreading gossip or sleeping with someone else’s girlfriend. Keith was the source of most of the drama on the University of Wisconsin hockey teams. Men’s and women’s.

Gabriel is not that guy. Gabriel is the opposite of Keith. He could win a Norris trophy for deflecting drama without noticing what it’s about. So when Gabriel has to admit something’s up, well, something’s definitely up.

Gabriel noticed Oscar first, or noticed Oscar’s silence, really. Gabriel had gotten so used to the regular background chatter from his d-partner – between drills, on the bench, between periods – that the silence was deafening when it fell. Oscar wasn’t talking to Gabriel anymore, and that was more than obvious.

He wanted to say something, wanted to ask if Oscar was alright, wanted to offer an apology for being a dick that one day last week, but he couldn’t get the words out. Gabriel’s mother had called him her chatterbox when he was younger, and the nickname probably still applied, until the second half of last season. Now that he’s stopped talking, he doesn’t know how to start again.

So he didn’t say anything to Oscar.

 

He didn’t say anything to Ilya either. He thinks he could say something, if only Ilya would make the first move, but that doesn’t seem to be happening.

He took it in stride when Ilya ignored him for the entirety of the Florida roadtrip, chalked it up to that being the first time he had really sought Ilya out. The biweekly questions about how he was doing, the suggestions they get lunch with a few of the other guys on the team felt like a lot when Gabriel didn’t want to hear them. And then when Gabriel did want to talk to Ilya, well, of course, the distance between those same biweekly moments of interest felt like an eon.

But it’s been over a week since Ilya told him to pull himself together, and Ilya hasn’t spoken to him since. He would think Ilya was angrier than he had let on, if he hadn’t noticed that Ilya was suddenly super busy with the rest of the team’s leadership. And all of them were busy with Patches. Ilya took Patches to lunch on Tuesday, Hillsy came into practice with the rookies on Wednesday, and Patches left with Schmidty afterwards. Then all four of them had a furtive meeting yesterday.

Gabriel’s probably been forgotten in the face of a new charity case. Patches must be easier to help, more grateful too, less likely to bite the hand that feeds him and all that. Gabriel can’t blame Ilya for ignoring him in favor of Patches.

And maybe, maybe Patches needs more help. Gabriel doesn’t want to think too much about the possibility because the timing is barely shy of damning, but, like anything else he’s ever tried not to think about, he can’t help but worry at the thought like a loose tooth. 

Because Gabriel was a dick to Ezra, and immediately afterwards, everyone started acting really worried about Ezra. Hell, Gabriel walked into the locker room Wednesday to see Max hugging Ezra hard enough to nearly lift him off the ground. Ezra is a physical, cuddly sort of guy, but he usually keeps it to his roommates, and Max is rarely demonstrative off the ice. So, yeah, something’s definitely up.

Gabriel has a good grasp of causality versus correlation. Ezra probably isn’t devastatingly distraught because Gabriel made a few mean comments. Ezra probably hasn’t requested a trade, no matter what the dark place at the back of Gabriel’s mind may come up with when he’s drifting off to sleep. The rational part of his mind chimed in that the Rangers would never trade their star goalie, that they’d trade Gabriel instead to keep him happy. Maybe he’d set some sort of record for the player who had to be traded the most times to keep his teammates happy.

But really, none of that’s likely. What _is_ likely, is that Gabriel was a dick to a teammate who’s dealing with a family emergency or a personal health scare or something shitty like that. That would suck. Or perhaps Ezra _is_ petty enough to turn a few nasty chirps made on a bad day into a team-wide drama. That would suck too, to have one more person Gabriel thought was okay turn out to be a petty dick.

 

Gabriel’s leaving practice, one of the first guys out of the locker room as usual. Patches and Shep are up ahead, back in street clothes surprisingly quickly. They’re following Coach Federov up the stairs to the second floor, where the coaches’ offices are. If they’re involving the coaching staff, even just the goalie coach, in whatever the hell’s going on, it has to be more than drama.

Fuck, he really needs apologize to Ezra. Even if whatever’s wrong has nothing to do with Gabriel, the isolation and the guilt and the uncertainty are dragging him down. He needs to put this hellish week behind him before it starts affecting his play. 

 

_Sunday, December 22, 2017_

They play the Caps at home, one last game on a Sunday evening before they scatter for the short Christmas break. Gabriel’s not the only guy who’s antsy when it goes to a shoot-out, not the only guy who slumps on the bench when Max fans on his shot and the game ends in a loss.

The mood afterwards isn’t too down, though. No one likes to lose, but the Rangers have had a strong two months and one overtime loss doesn’t change that. The guys are mostly excited to get a few days to spend with their families.

Gabriel’s not thinking about the break. He doesn’t want to think about the break, or about seeing his mother for the first time since the summer, or about Amber worrying over how seriously he’s going to fight with their mother. 

He doesn’t want to think about apologizing to Patches either, but that’s a bit more urgent. He couldn’t find a quiet moment to talk to him at practice this morning, and then he hadn’t wanted to say anything right before the game. This may be urgent, but well, the last thing he wanted to do was throw their goalie off his game by bringing up emotional drama right before warm-ups.

But now the game’s over, everyone’s talking to the media or cooling down on the exercise bikes, and Gabriel still hasn’t said anything. Shep is on the bike next to Patches, even though he didn’t see ice time, looming there like a protective shadow that Gabriel really doesn’t want to deal with.

He stays on his own bike, showers, changes, and continues to not say anything. Everyone’s heading out. A lot of the guys are heading home, probably needing to finish last minute packing for wherever they’re flying off to tomorrow. Half the team is going out to a quieter bar on the far west side though, seemingly wanting to say _goodbye_ , as though they’re separating for the offseason, not a five-day break.

Gabriel eyes the group, trying to look like he’s not looking. Patches is going out. So is Ilya, surprisingly. And, well, he can sit with Ilya without it being _weird_ , and there will certainly be an opportunity to pull Patches aside, to say something quick and apologetic.

 

Ilya must not notice him on the four-block walk to the bar, because he looks surprised when Gabriel sets down a pint and slides into the booth next to him. Dima’s across from them, and Gabriel belatedly realizes he interrupted a conversation. Ilya and Dima are going to switch from Russian to English to humor him.

“Carts! I did not expect to see you here,” Dima smiles brightly. Gabriel has no idea if it’s genuine.

“I, um, I guess I wanted to say goodbye,” Gabriel stammers, face heating. Wow, he is really out of practice with talking.

“I get more drinks.” Dima slides towards the end of the booth, even as Gabriel looks between the three nearly full pints on the table, and starts to tell Dima he doesn’t have to get up. “You stay. Talk to Socks.” Gabriel’s not proud of how easily he acquiesces. 

“So what’s going on?” Ilya asks, as soon as Dima steps away.

Gabriel tries for a grin. “Can’t I just want to say goodbye?”

Ilya’s lips quirk upwards. “Do you just want to say goodbye?”

“Not really, um...” Gabriel looks around. Patches is at the bar between Wins and some stranger. He doesn’t look like he’s getting up anytime soon. Gabriel meant to apologize to Ilya too, and he can do that now. “I wanted to apologize, you know, about last week.”

“Thank you.” Ilya smiles for real now. “Apology accepted, of course. Although I am not sure I am who you need to be apologizing to.”

Luckily, the lighting is dim enough to hide how red Gabriel’s face must still be. “Yeah, I know, I’m going to say something to Patches too. Just waiting for…” He trails off, looking back over to the bar.

He blinks, looks again, forgets about not staring. Patches is leaning in towards the skinny, curly-haired stranger in a way that’s not entirely innocent. Thankfully, it’s not obvious either, nothing that anyone would pick up on if they had never talked to another guy with intent, had never measured another guy’s intent based on how far he leaned in and how many times he touched their arm.

Hell, Wins and Stromey are sitting right next to him, chattering obliviously on to each other.

“Carts, Gabriel,” Ilya sounds sharp, like he’s repeating himself, and frustrated about it.

Gabriel twists back around to look at him, fast enough he knocks an elbow against the table, jostling the pint glasses.

“Fuck!” He grabs his elbow, tries to school his expression into something other than panic, tries to figure out what the hell to do about this. Maybe he should say something. To Ilya. He’s certainly not saying anything to Patches, but someone needs to talk to the rookie before the wrong guy catches him at this and he gets outed to the team, or worse. 

No one deserves to be run off a team, especially not someone as sweet and shy and impossible to dislike as Ezra. But with the way Ezra’s so physical with the guys, the backlash is bound to be pretty terrible.

Some of this must show on his face because Ilya looks at him consideringly. “What is wrong?”

Gabriel casts about for an answer, because giving Ilya a heads up, getting him to say something to Patches may seem like a good idea, but there’s no way to do that without outing Patches. “Oh, um…” Gabriel trails off.

Ilya meets his eyes steadily, but doesn’t say anything, apparently willing to wait Gabriel out. 

“Look, I’m just going to talk to Patches now,” Gabriel finally says. Ilya’s giving him nothing, and someone has to prevent the impending disaster.

Ilya’s gaze turns pointed. “Perhaps you should wait until he is not in the middle of a conversation.” 

Fuck. Ilya may not be gay, may not be anything but completely straight, but he is perceptive. The way he’s looking at Gabriel says he knows exactly what Patches is doing and exactly what Gabriel is thinking. But Gabriel doesn’t know Ilya well enough to feel certain he knows everything Gabriel thinks he knows.

Gabriel waves a hand over his shoulder towards Patches. “I don’t think it’s that serious. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I interrupted.”

“Gabriel.” Ilya draws his name out, using a voice Gabriel has only ever heard at family skate when Ilya would break up scuffles between his son and daughter. He doesn’t mind Ilya being less than forthright about whatever he knows – hell, Gabriel is doing the same thing – but he isn’t going to deal with this condescending bullshit.

“Look, I’m ninety-nine percent sure we suspect the same thing here,” Gabriel hisses across the table. “I don’t actually know anything and I wouldn’t say shit if I did, but you can’t possibly think it’s a good idea to let Patches do this. Were you paying attention at all last season? You saw how the Hawks reacted to me, and you thought what? Hey, let’s repeat some fucking sucky history? Let’s let the sweet little rookie throw himself at a random guy in front of the whole team, because rah fucking rah, you can play? There’s no way you’re that naive, so what the fuck is your excuse?” Gabriel realizes he’s practically snarling in Ilya’s face, breathing hard, and he makes himself sit back.

“Gabriel, this is not Chicago. This team is different, better.” Ilya’s patience is exasperating now.

“How the hell do you know that? We’ve been here for a few months. All it takes is one asshole to ruin all of this.” Gabriel’s throat feels tight with all the anger he’s holding back.

Ilya holds up a hand, placating, starts to say something, but Gabriel cuts him off. “Save it. Whatever it is. I’m going to get some fresh air, head home. Merry Christmas, or something.”

Gabriel grabs the coat he draped over the back of the booth, roughly yanks it on as he strides to the door. The cold air is bracing, the sidewalk is empty enough not to be annoying, he’s too angry to sit in a cab, and it’s impossible to get lost in Manhattan with a phone, so Gabriel keeps walking.

Yeah, he’s pissed. More than pissed. He’s spent the entire past week fucking _panicking_ about being an asshole to a sensitive teammate who was possibly dealing with some serious shit. 

What really happened: Gabriel said a few thoughtless things, and Ezra decided to take a stupid fucking risk that could get him outed to the team like a monumental fucking idiot, like that wouldn’t bring down the fragile, _no homo_ house of cards the NHL has built around players like them, like it wouldn’t suffocate all of them when it crashed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter again includes homophobia, both external and internalized, and some less than responsible drinking. Feel free to message me for more details or let me know if there's anything else you think I should warn for.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge thank you to [Clem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smallmercies/pseuds/smallmercies), [ftchocholic](http://ftchocoholic.tumblr.com/), and [Effy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourthlinewinger) for beta reading! This chapter would not be half as good without you.

_Tuesday, December 24, 2019_

_Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Chop. Dump._

Gabriel relaxes into muscle memory as he slices another potato. Peeling and slicing potatoes has been his job every Christmas Eve ever since he was old enough to handle his mother’s hefty chef’s knife. Paring green beans and mincing garlic has always been Amber’s, but her flight doesn’t land until late tonight, so he’ll probably do that too. 

Maybe he’ll stuff the turkey as well – for years, he and Amber fought over who got to do it and had to be told to take turns. Gabriel spent weeks every December crafting elaborate stories to convince his mother Amber had stuffed the turkey the previous year. Then again, his mother may be the one to do it tonight. It’s funny how stuff that was so important for so long seems inconsequential now.

His mother is on the other side of the kitchen prepping a small batch of cookie dough. The oven-warmed air between them, filled with the sounds of cooking, feels almost companionable, far removed from the anger he’s been feeling for weeks. It could be a decade ago, a year or two after they moved into this house, with its lovely kitchen that actually fit three people – before college, before the Hawks, before coming home became a burden and barely getting time off became a blessing.

The music is different though, something instrumental with enough bells to be Christmassy. It’s the kind of music Gabriel’s mother likes, but that he and Amber would have whined about as children or teenagers. A decade ago, he and Amber would still have insisted on playing _I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas_ half a dozen times, screaming along more than singing. Their mother would have groaned theatrically, before smiling quietly and humming along. 

Gabriel hasn’t heard _I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas_ since his sophomore year of college. Amber sang the first three lines alone before Gabriel walked out of the kitchen, claiming he needed to use the bathroom, and then she flipped past it. He misses it now.

His mother eventually breaks the quiet. “You’ve been playing really well this season – I’ve enjoyed watching you. Not that I haven’t always liked watching you, but you seem so dynamic this year.”

Gabriel starts, knife stalling halfway through a potato. He mentally prepared for criticism veiled as concern and questions about going back to school, not genuine praise. “Um, thanks, Mum. I’ve been working hard.”

“I can tell.” She wraps the ball of dough in wax paper and places it in the freezer. “It seems like the Rangers are good for you.”

Gabriel concentrates on wiggling the knife out of the potato, then slicing it cleanly. His mother can read him as well as she ever could, even though they’ve barely talked for three-and-a-half years. Being so transparent to her has always been a mixed blessing, even moreso now. Of course she’s right – Chicago was full of assholes and Gabriel’s better off without them. Or at least she was right until two weeks ago – the Rangers aren’t looking so great for Gabriel now either. 

He finally says, “They’re a good team.” 

It’s true. He’s spent more time than he’d like to admit thinking about Patches the last few weeks, replaying everyone’s interactions with him over and over in his head. The only thing that makes sense is that Patches came out out to at least a few of the guys – Ilya’s perceptive, Shep’s protective, and Oscar can be oblivious, but Ezra telling them makes _everything_ add up. 

They’ve obviously been accepting. Of course, that’s hardly everyone and there’s a huge difference between accepting a charmingly sweet and amazingly talented goalie and accepting a solitary, replaceable defenseman. Even so, most of the guys seem to mean well, which is better than anything Gabriel could ever say about the Hawks.

“I’m glad.” His mother turns on the tap. “Can you set the timer for ten minutes? I want to make sure the cookie dough isn’t sticky. I’ll put the stuffing together in the meantime.”

He wipes his hands on his shorts, then reaches up to fiddle with the microwave until he remembers how the timer works. “Do you have something I can use to mix the potato seasoning?”

She rummages in the cupboard, then hands him a mason jar. “You’re probably going to tell me I’m being embarrassing, but I’m really thankful that you’re happy. It makes me happy.”

Not for the first time, Gabriel wonders if he hurt her by pulling away, as much as she hurt him by insisting he was ruining his life when he dropped out of college. He thinks he must have, if their last few Christmases are any indication. A year after he refused to sing about hippopotamuses, and three months before he signed with the Hawks, Christmas lunch devolved into a screaming fight about Gabriel’s future. Amber slunk away, leaving a nearly full plate at the table. No one touched the cherry pie sitting on the top shelf of the refrigerator.

After that, his mother let their traditions – stringing a popcorn garland for the tree, trying for a family game night, taking meals to elderly neighbors on boxing day – slip away without much of a struggle. Gabriel appreciated it then, but now, the overtures he ignored eat at him like missed passes.

He swallows down a sigh. He’s lonely. The loneliness has been lodged in his chest for a while, but it’s growing now, or maybe just being pushed forward by the fear that’s been slowly crushing the air out of him since he stormed out of the bar. He wants someone in his corner and it seems like his mother is already there. Gabriel resists the instinctive urge to turn away and leans over to kiss her forehead instead. “Well, I’m happy you’re happy. And that’s as sappy as we need to get today.”

“Alright,” she chuckles. “Tell me about the team and I won’t say anything else sappy.”

Gabriel pours some olive oil into the jar, sprinkles in some spices, screws the lid on tightly, and shakes. He drizzles the mixture over the bowl of potatoes. “They don’t take themselves as seriously as the Hawks did. I mean, they do on the ice obviously – they’re really serious about practicing and games and stuff, but off the ice, they’re actually fun.” The Hawks had taken _having fun_ too seriously to really have any.

“What do you guys do for fun?” His mother looks over at him from the stale sourdough bread she is cutting into cubes.

“Well, oh, you know,” Gabriel racks his brain for something he can tell her. His teammates may be nice guys, but that doesn’t mean Gabriel has hung out with them. “We do game nights sometimes. Our goalie’s really creative about card game rules.” Ilya has hosted a few game nights and he always invites Gabriel, and Gabriel played cards with Ty and Stromey and Patches on that one flight, so he’s not exactly lying, merely combining stories.

“So your goalie always wins and… you enjoy it?” His mother sounds understandably skeptical – Gabriel was a sore loser when he and Amber played chess obsessively through middle school. The game was nearly banned from the house.

He spreads the seasoned potatoes over a baking pan. “I could have grown up, you know,” he says, lightly.

“Well, of course. And you have grown up so much,” his mother replies, far too seriously. If he has to discuss how grown up he seems, he’s liable to spontaneously combust from the hypocrisy. Grown-ups don’t have meltdowns because they think a coworker is upset with them. 

Gabriel covers the pan with tin foil and turns to his mother, smiling. “I _could_ have grown up, but really, our goalie’s just weird. In a good way. He doesn’t always win – I’m not sure he even cares about winning. He likes messing with the rest of us.”

“I’m relieved that you guys don’t get dangerously competitive.” His mother sounds so pleased. She believes him.

He can almost believe himself too, almost believe he could show up to game night at Ilya’s house, go hiking with Ty and Hillsy, and not have everyone throw it back in his face if they ever found out he wasn’t straight. Hell, he can almost believe he could come out to his team and it would be fine. 

It almost seems possible, in this little bubble, with his mother, who has never had a problem having a gay son, and who might not have a problem having a college dropout son anymore. But his mother’s kitchen isn’t the NHL, so Gabriel pushes those stupid, wishful thoughts aside.

“Yeah, it’s been a good season so far,” he says, sliding the pan of potatoes into the refrigerator.

The microwave timer dings, mercifully saving him from having to tell any more lies.

“I’m almost finished with the stuffing.” His mother gestures to the bowl in front of her. “A few more minutes in the freezer won’t hurt the cookie dough. Why don’t I finish this up and you can stuff it in the turkey along with the lemon slices?”

“You know, I have grown up a bit.” Gabriel grins before she can say anything. “But stuffing the turkey still seems oddly satisfying? Just so you know, I wouldn’t fight Amber over it if she were here already.”

“My, my, you have grown up,” his mother laughs.

Maybe he can have her back in his corner. Maybe they can rebuild the relationship they used to have. Maybe he can talk to her about being a gay professional athlete. Maybe she can listen, and feel some of the things he’s feeling. Maybe they can be people who like each other again.

Maybe he’ll ask if she has any popping corn tucked away in the cupboard. Maybe they’ll pop some tonight and string a popcorn garland for the tree. Maybe he won’t prick his fingers too badly.

There are a lot of maybes, but they feel like hopeful maybes. Gabriel will count that as a win, intensely grateful, all of a sudden, for this half week with his family.

 

_Thursday, December 26, 2019_

Ezra really wishes he had a car in Vancouver by the time he’s halfway to Carly’s parents’ house. He’d walked all the way to Carly’s apartment before remembering _some people_ liked spending Christmas break with their parents. Luckily, her parents’ house is where he remembered it being and it is fairly warm for boxing day. 

Carly’s cousin, Brianna, doesn’t look surprised to see him when she answers the door. “Carly! Ezra’s here!” she yells back into the house, then turns and runs down the hall without even saying hello.

Ezra steps inside and lets the warm, spiced air seep into him. He feels better already. He feels better already; this house has always felt happy, even when it also feels overcrowded. By the time he has his boots off his feet and lined up by the wall, Carly is there.

“Oh, hi, Ezra! Merry Christmas!” Carly pulls him into a hug. Her hair tickles his nose. It smells like pine needles and it’s frizzing with static.

“Merry Christmas!” He squeezes her back.

“I could have picked you up.” She steps away, smiling. “There are better ways to exercise than hiking in the cold.”

“I’ve had coaches who would disagree – or, well, they’d prefer we run in the cold, so I guess not exactly disagree…” he trails off, awkwardly leaning against the doorframe. “I needed to get out of the house. Didn’t want to wait.”

“Oh.” Carly reaches over and squeezes his shoulder. “I’m guessing you’re not in the mood for people right now.”

Ezra glances towards the end of the hallway. He can’t see anyone, but he can hear the buzz of a house full of people, punctuated by an occasional child’s shriek. The prospect of making small talk with her aunts and uncles and second cousins seems exhausting. “I don’t want to take up your time with your family,” he hedges.

Carly laughs. “This is day three of the madhouse – I’m all for taking a break. Just go on up to my room. I’m going to grab eggnog for us and tell my mom you’re here.”

“Thank you,” Ezra sighs.

 

Ezra stretches out across the air mattress that’s taking up most of Carly’s floor, only sitting up when she comes in. He takes the glass of eggnog she hands him and grabs one of the cookies on the plate she sets on the floor next to him.

She lowers herself to sit on the floor, leaning back against her bed and stretching her legs onto the air mattress. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Ezra needs to talk about it. “They’re going on about us dating again.” The words spill past his lips. “My mom wanted to introduce me to the daughter of one of her coworkers, so I told them about coming out to my teammates, and my dad got really pissed. He said I needed to date you as a cover at least.”

“ _At least_ date me,” Carly repeats, biting. “God. Even your asshole dad thinks I’m the last resort. The punchline.” She takes a long swallow of eggnog, as though to wash the bitterness of her words away.

 

“The punchline? You’re not the punchline. I don’t think it’s about you,” Ezra explains. “He’d be happy if I dated any girl.”

“I know. _Even me _,” she snaps.__

__“Well yeah. My dad doesn’t care that you’re not straight.” Ezra feels like he’s missing something important. Or maybe Carly is._ _

__Looking away from Carly only exacerbates the feeling because the room is missing plenty of things. Carly’s parents stowed her Harry Potter posters and hand-quilted wall hangings away when they converted her room into a guest room. They’d kept her seafoam comforter and wrought iron bed frame with its matching mirror. It’s still Carly’s room, except for all the jarring ways in which it isn’t._ _

__Carly tips her head back against the bed, closing her eyes. “How are you this oblivious?”_ _

__“Oblivious?” Ezra gently knocks his foot against Carly’s leg._ _

__She pulls her leg back, out of range of his foot. “What does the girl your mom tried to set you up with look like?”_ _

__Ezra shrugs. He left before his parents could get more than three lines into their spiel._ _

__Carly sighs, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Okay, you’ve seen your teammates’ girlfriends. Your parents want you to date someone who looks like them. Or Olivia. I guarantee you if she wasn’t engaged, they’d be trying to pair you off with her instead of me.”_ _

__“Olivia’s engaged?” Ezra asks. And then, “You kept in touch with her? I didn’t realize you two were close.” He’s not sure what to think about Carly keeping up with his high school girlfriend._ _

__Carly clenches her hands around her calves. “We’re friends on Facebook,” she finally says. “She got engaged a few months ago. Some guy who played lacrosse at Northwestern.”_ _

__“Oh, huh. Good for them.” Ezra smiles, and then gets back to the point. “I wouldn’t want to marry Olivia.”_ _

__“But you did want to date her,” Carly points out. She twirls a strand of hair around one finger._ _

__“Well yeah.” Ezra dated Olivia for two very good years before she left Kamloops for Northwestern._ _

__Carly bites into a cookie instead of replying. Ezra runs through everything she’s said and feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. “Do _you_ want to date me?”_ _

__“God, no!” Cookie crumbs fly from Carly’s mouth even as she claps a hand over it. She sounds like she’s on the verge of laughter, or tears. “Remember every time I’ve told you I don’t like guys? How that’s the one thing I’m sure of even when I have no idea what I want?”_ _

__Ezra nods, relieved. “What’s wrong then?”_ _

__Carly’s quiet for a long moment. “Did you notice how relieved Olivia was when she met me that first time I came up to Kamloops?”_ _

__Ezra remembers having a fun weekend with his best friend and his girlfriend. He’s pretty sure he would have noticed Olivia being relieved or anything like that. “Relieved?”_ _

__“We talked while you were at practice that first day – she’d seen us together for all of ten minutes at that point, and you know what she said?” Carly rubs her glass between her hands._ _

__Ezra shakes his head._ _

__“She said you talked about me all the time, that we seemed really close and she wasn’t sure what to make of that. But she said now that she’d met me, she was glad you had a friend like me.”_ _

__“What’s wrong with that? It seems like a good thing,” Ezra offers cautiously. He’d missed Carly achingly those first months in Kamloops._ _

__Carly sets the glass down and meets his eyes. “Ezra, you apparently talked about me to Olivia, your girlfriend, nearly non-stop. You even told her about how we shared a bed sometimes. _She was jealous. _Then she saw me, and I was overweight and not exactly attractive, and so she stopped worrying.”___ _

____Ezra responds on autopilot. “You’re not…” he trails off at Carly’s glare._ _ _ _

____“Don’t,” Carly says, and he bites his lip at her tone. “You’re going to tell me I’m pretty or start in on some body positivity shit and I don’t want to hear it. I’m not particularly attractive and I am kind of chubby, and I’m fine with it – we can’t all look like models – they’re models for a reason. I just get tired of no one thinking I could be desirable, you know, always being the safe friend or the last resort choice. And here you are prancing through life, with your modelesque girlfriends and your own adorably charming good looks. You don’t get –”_ _ _ _

____“Carly,” Ezra cuts in softly. “The thing is, I don’t want a girlfriend right now. Any girlfriend. I want a boyfriend.” That’s why he’s here in the first place. He’s not sure how they got sidetracked._ _ _ _

____Carly covers her face with her hands. He can almost hear her counting to ten in her head. When she looks up, her eyes are watery. “I know, and I’m sorry your dad is being a dick and I’m sorry the NHL is the way it is.” She inhales noisily, wetly._ _ _ _

____“Thanks. I’ll be alright. And the stuff my dad’s saying _really_ isn’t about you, so you don’t need to worry about it.” Ezra leans forward to hug her, but Carly stands up, blinking rapidly._ _ _ _

____“Not about me, huh?” She turns away from him to rifle aimlessly through the suitcase on her bed. “Has anything ever been about me as far as you’re concerned? It’s all about you in your head, isn’t it?” She’s choking the words out through tears._ _ _ _

____“I’m sorry…” Ezra begins, not sure what he’s apologizing for, other than making Carly cry. Of course he doesn’t think everything is about him._ _ _ _

____Carly clearly doesn’t want a hug, so he’s at a loss for what to do. He stares at what he’s pretty sure is a Monet reproduction hanging over the bed. Half a minute, maybe more, passes, punctuated only by Carly’s sniffles._ _ _ _

____Carly wipes her face with a t-shirt and turns back to him, cheeks blotchy, but eyes set. “I’m pretty sure the kids will have been sent outside by now. Why don’t we go join them?”_ _ _ _

____Ezra drains the last of his eggnog. Everything feels wrong, and it’s probably stupidly optimistic to think playing tag with a bunch of grade schoolers will fix anything, but he doesn’t have any better ideas. “Yeah. That sounds good.”_ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter again includes homophobia, both external and internalized, and discussion of body image issues. Feel free to message me for more details or let me know if there's anything else you think I should warn for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another huge thank you to [Clem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/smallmercies/pseuds/smallmercies), [Effy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fourthlinewinger), and [ftchocholic](http://ftchocoholic.tumblr.com/) for beta reading and helping talk through story ideas. You guys are the best!

_Wednesday, January 8, 2020_

Ezra isn’t sure whose idea it was to shoot a promotional video about the rookies getting to know New York City at Shake Shack, but after his second burger, he thinks he should thank them. Zach grins at him from across the table and Oscar munches on a few crinkle fries; they’re clearly enjoying it too. They’ve got a tiny crew from public relations – Megan behind the camera, Kareem directing, and Patrick doing whatever Megan and Kareem ask him to do. So far, that’s included rearranging the food, telling fans to wait for a break in filming to get autographs, and getting more fries whenever they run out. 

In between two takes, Patrick sits down with them, sliding into the booth next to Zach. Ezra’s absorbed in a conversation with Oscar about the Riveters’ chances in the Isobel Cup in a few weeks, so he isn’t listening too closely to what Zach and Patrick are talking about. Until he hears Patrick mention a boyfriend.

“...broke up last week,” Patrick finishes.

“That sucks, man.” Zach pushes the nearly empty fry boat towards Patrick. “Break-up fries?”

Patrick laughs as he takes the remaining fries. “Thanks. It sucks, you know, but it’s better than fighting all the time.”

Ezra’s sitting at a messy table in a Shake Shack with another guy who is ...gay? ...bi? Who definitely likes guys. Who works with Ezra. And who has a really cute laugh. 

Ezra noticed that Patrick was handsome when he met him in September, but he pushed the thought out of his mind before it could start to mean anything. He wasn’t out to anyone on the team and he assumed Patrick was straight. Now he’s out to everyone, and Patrick apparently isn’t straight. It wouldn’t be weird if Ezra was interested in him. The idea is exhilarating.

Ezra forces his brain back into the current conversation. Tries to, at least. “Hey, I’m sorry too.” 

“Thanks.” Patrick smiles at him, a little lopsided, and very attractive.

“Alright, we’re back on.” Kareem and Megan step back from where they’ve been conferring over the video that’s been recorded so far. “We’ve got enough on your favorite parts of the city,” Kareem says. “Let’s talk about living together. Who has the most annoying habits?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat, immediately nodding at Zach. “He wants to be everywhere early,” Oscar says. 

Zach smirks at Oscar. “And he’s always running late.” 

“How did you sort that one out?” Kareem asks. “Do you still take one car everywhere?”

“Ezra looked very sad when we argued, so now we leave early,” Oscar replies.

“It was pretty tragic,” Zach agrees.

Ezra buries his face in his hands until Oscar ruffles his hair.

They talk about living together, about Ezra’s standards for a tidy house, and about their decreasingly disastrous efforts at cooking before Megan finally nods, satisfied. “That’s a wrap folks.” She chuckles. “I always love saying that. Anyways, I’ll edit this down and we’ll get your very first feature posted later this week. Nice work.”

Everyone’s gathering their coats when Oscar says, “You did not eat anything. Did you not want something now?”

Now that Ezra thinks about it, Kareem and Megan didn’t even try any of the food while they were filming. He looks away from Patrick, who’s shrugging on a puffy blue coat that somehow doesn’t look bad on him. “You guys should get something. We’re not in a rush.”

“I’m vegan,” Megan says.

“Vegetarian here,” Kareem adds, raising a hand over his head. “And I’m not a fan of cheese. Or mushrooms.”

“Weirdo.” Megan knocks her shoulder against Kareem’s.

“Really?” Zach stops winding his scarf around his neck to squint at Kareem. “Even I like the portobello burger thing and I’m pretty much the opposite of vegetarian.”

“See! Mushrooms are good.” Megan tucks a notepad into her camera bag. “Really though, we’re fine.”

“I saw a froyo place on the way in,” Ezra says, because no one should have to spend a whole afternoon in a restaurant without getting to eat. 

“I don’t think frozen _yogurt_ is vegan.” Patrick laughs.

“Oh, right,” Ezra mumbles. He tries to tug his hat low enough to cover his flaming cheeks.

“It’s not, but you get major points for trying.” Megan smiles at him. “If you guys are actually up for ice cream, there’s a place with a great mango sorbet fifteen minutes from here.”

“We are definitely up for ice cream,” Oscar says, throwing an arm around Ezra’s shoulders and leading the way out of Shake Shack.

 

That’s how Ezra finds himself ordering a mint chocolate chip cone in a tiny Upper East Side ice cream shop on a day when it’s far too cold to be eating ice cream. According to Kareem, they’re participating in a proud Bostonian tradition of eating ice cream year round. Zach argues that they’re not in Boston, but moments later, he counters himself by declaring that ice cream is one of the most delicious foods ever created and ordering a chocolate cone.

Patrick steps up next to Ezra while he’s getting napkins, and reaches around him for a spoon. “Sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

Ezra feels embarrassed all over again, flustered and red. “Oh, it’s fine.” He flashes a smile at Patrick and hopes it’s convincing. Or at least cute. He really hopes Patrick thinks it’s cute. 

Patrick smiles back, so maybe he does. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually, ever since you came out.” 

“You have?” Ezra unceremoniously announced that he was bi to the front office staff before a team meeting a few days after everyone got back from Christmas break. It had been excruciatingly awkward, but if it meant something to Patrick, Ezra would gladly do it a hundred times over. He tries not to read too much into the fact that Patrick apparently broke up with his boyfriend a week after that.

Patrick leans around Ezra again, grabbing a handful of napkins. His hair smells bright and a bit lemony. Ezra wonders when it won’t be too soon to comment on Patrick’s hair.

“I’m a huge hockey fan.” Patrick smiles again. Ezra can’t look away. Patrick has a really nice smile, with movie star dimples and very white teeth. “But it always felt a bit hypocritical to like the NHL when it’s so homophobic. And I never felt welcome, you know. So, um, thanks for making it less homophobic, I guess.”

“That’s a big part of why I did it.” Ezra replies, then immediately wishes he could take the words back. He wants to impress Patrick, but not by lying to him. “I mean, I mostly did it because I think I would have gone crazy otherwise, or not crazy, but...” Ezra stares miserably at the container of spoons and resists the urge to dig his fingernails into the counter. He doesn’t want to sound stupid either. 

“Hey,” Patrick rests his hand on Ezra’s, and suddenly nothing else matters. “I get it. I’m obviously not under the same pressure you are – being bi _and_ playing professional hockey – but I think I get it. You can talk to me if you want.” 

“Yeah? You wouldn't mind?” Ezra looks away from where their hands are still touching. He meets Patrick’s eyes, which are really, really green. There's not a shadow of distance in them, only warmth, so Ezra feels confident enough to suggest, "We could do that over dinner sometime."

“Um, sure.” Patrick pulls his hand away and shoves the spoon he’s still holding into his pocket. Ezra curls his fingers around thin air. Why did Patrick pick up a spoon when he has an ice cream cone? “Maybe after you guys get back next week.”

Ezra wasn’t thinking about the team leaving on a road trip in two days. Now that he is, the idea of not seeing Patrick for another week stings like a puck to the chest. “What about next Friday?” They’ll have practice that afternoon, so getting to dinner might be a bit of a rush, but they won’t be back in town until very late Thursday night and Ezra doesn’t want to wait any longer than he has to.

“Sorry. I’m busy next weekend.” Patrick steps back. Ezra’s stomach drops, then swoops when Patrick suggests, “What about lunch the Sunday after that?” 

Ezra doesn’t bother to hide his enthusiasm. “Yes! That would be great. You should pick a place.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Patrick pats Ezra on the arm then turns away. 

Ezra clamps his hand over the lingering warmth on his arm and follows Patrick to the tiny table that the rest of their group has already crammed themselves around. 

 

They’re barely inside the apartment before Oscar and Zach turn to Ezra, the three of them crowded into their foyer. “So, you and Patrick,” Zach says.

Ezra shrugs, belatedly worried about seeming too eager. It’s way too soon to know that he likes Patrick. Feeling so much, so fast is cringeworthy, but there’s no way to change how he feels. He’s not going to say anything until Zach actually asks a question, though.

“You had your eyes on each other the entire time we ate ice cream,” Oscar adds.

Ezra feels his cheeks flaming and bends over to fiddle with his shoelaces. He tried to be subtle about watching Patrick lick his ice cream cone.

“You would make a cute couple,” Oscar continues.

Ezra straightens up slowly. “We’ve talked to each other for less than an hour,” he demurs.

“Still...” Zach widens his eyes.

“You look ridiculous. And still nothing,” Ezra tells him. He may like Patrick, but he _has_ only talked to him for an hour. That’s not even enough time to know if it’s a crush. And if it is, it’s definitely not enough time to decide whether or not to act on it. Ezra has been nursing a crush on Ilya since September and he’s never even mentioned it to anyone. He’s not going to fall in love with Patrick right now.

“But are you going to talk more?” Oscar asks. He looks excited.

“We’re getting lunch next Sunday,” Ezra says quietly. He’s afraid of jinxing something that isn’t anything yet. Knowing Oscar and Zach saw the potential between him and Patrick is reassuring. Their investment in it is comforting.

“Is it a date?” Oscar asks. So much for not jinxing things. Maybe his roommates are a little overinvested.

“It’s um…” Ezra’s not sure what it is. He thinks it could be a date, but he doesn’t know if Patrick’s there yet. Then again, if Patrick was looking at him as much as he was looking at Patrick, maybe he is. “It’s not, not a date.”

 

 _Wednesday, January 15, 2020_

The Hawks play a tribute video for them. A fucking tribute video. Gabriel can’t even be angry about it. Well, obviously he can – the fury he’s feeling proves that pretty well – but he shouldn’t be. 

He never hated the public relations staff with their unshakably bland cheer. He still doesn’t hate them. They have a job to do, and part of that job is letting the fans know the team still cares about their beloved star defenseman, even if management cruelly banished him to New York. Hell, Ilya deserves the tribute video. And if Gabriel’s in a few clips, that’s just pragmatic happenstance, the same way Gabriel’s inclusion in the trade was pragmatic happenstance. 

Still, he hates it. He’d close his eyes against the montage of video clips if he didn’t know the cameras would pan in close on his face. He forces himself to watch. Ilya scoring, Ilya scoring again, Ilya and Gabriel assisting on Chris’s goal, Chris hugging Ilya, all the guys piling onto the celly, Chris wrapping an arm around Gabriel. Fuck.

The crowd is cheering, eating the sap up with a spoon. His teammates, current and former, look appropriately somber. He wonders how they’d all react to the montage that’s been running through Gabriel’s head ever since he got off the plane and set foot back in this godforsaken city.

 

_Wednesday, October 24, 2018_

The team was at their favorite bar. It was on the rooftop of a hotel, not the one where visiting teams stayed, but another five-star hotel along the Chicago River. The night was chilly at ground level, probably downright frigid fifty stories up, but who could tell with the thermal curtains and space heaters creating the illusion of a balmy July night. Or creating a cheap imitation of a glassed-in bar. Take your pick. 

The Hawks won that evening, an unexpected blowout against the Bolts. Chris had a hattrick. Anthony had two points. Everyone had something to celebrate.

Gabriel was buzzed, closer to drunk than not. Chris had been on the dance floor for the better part of an hour, but he was making his way back to the table, holding a fresh whiskey sour. He slid into the chair next to Anthony, looking more ethereal than he usually managed off the ice. Anthony was distracted by the waifish woman in a gauzy minidress straddling his lap.

Chris slapped Anthony on the back, then glanced around the table. His eyes landed on Gabriel and he smiled, simultaneously sweet and predatory, the same way he handled the puck. And the women he picked up.

Gabriel’s stomach swooped as he smiled back, doing his best to not actually think about being handled by Chris. “Hey, good game tonight.” 

“We were fucking magnificent tonight!” Chris replied.

Gabriel eyed the empty chair next to Chris and stood up, abandoning whatever conversation he was having with Noah and Thompson. 

He stepped around the table mostly steadily until he was standing behind Chris. Then he wrapped both arms around Chris’s shoulders. Touching wasn’t gay if you won a game or you were drunk; it definitely wasn’t gay if both were true. “ _You_ had an excellent game.”

Chris clasped a hand around Gabriel’s wrist and leaned back to gaze up at him. “I really did, didn’t I?” His hair looked blue instead of brown in the bar’s weird lighting. Gabriel focused on the way it brushed against his stomach and ignored the way he wanted to run his fingers through it. He had done that once, in the middle of a celly when Chris had somehow lost his helmet and Gabriel was somehow missing a glove. Chris’s hair had been sweaty then, but it looked like it would feel soft now.

“C’mere.” Chris tugged on Gabriel’s arm, and for a wild second, Gabriel thought Chris meant for him to sit on his lap. He wouldn’t fit half as well as the woman on Anthony’s lap, but he could make it work. 

Chris gave him a slight push towards the empty chair and Gabriel realized that, of course, Chris didn’t want Gabriel to sit on his lap in public. He probably didn’t want Gabriel to sit on his lap at all. But they were celebrating, so Gabriel didn’t think too hard about _that_.

Chris kept his hand on Gabriel’s arm after Gabriel sat down, even leaned into him a bit. He smiled over at Gabriel, softer this time. “This is gonna be our year. I can feel it. We just have to keep playing like we did tonight.”

Gabriel could picture it then: lifting the cup with Chris and kissing him under it. It would be fucking beautiful. Magnificent, too.

“We’ve got to get these new guys in line though,” Chris continued. “What the fuck was Filly doing tonight? Terry wasn’t much better.”

Gabriel kept his head down and hoped desperately the music was too loud for Noah to hear Chris from across the table. He was a good kid and he didn’t deserve to hear his alternate captain get drunk and mean about him.

Drunk and mean wasn’t a good look on Chris. Gabriel cast about for something to distract him.

“And Socks needs to cool it with the showboating,” Chris continued before Gabriel could think of anything.

Gabriel worried his lip between his teeth. Even now, he can taste the shame of not defending Ilya. But Chris’s arm was warm against his and that felt more important than anything else in the universe.

“You should come over tomorrow,” Gabriel finally said. He’d mostly stopped outright asking for Chris’s attention by then, but he needed to say something and the line of warmth against his arm felt hopeful. “Lazy video game day?” Even though he wasn’t a huge fan of video games, he had a nice setup. He’d even bought Call of Duty after Chris raved about the latest release for weeks.

“Sorry. Gonna be busy tomorrow.” Chris sat up and elbowed Anthony. The line of warmth disappeared. “Tones, what are we doing tomorrow?” 

Anthony leaned away from the woman who was _still_ on his lap, but didn’t disentangle his hands from her hair. “COD tournament!” He pointed finger guns at Chris, then went back to making out.

Just for a second, Gabriel thought Chris would make it an invitation. Then Chris turned back to him. “Yeah, sorry. Some other time?”

He’d heard some combination of those five words so many times before. Like a puck to the face, repeated exposure didn’t make them hurt any less. So yeah, things with the Hawks were never actually good, and it was Gabriel’s own damn fault for believing they were great.

 

_Sunday, February 17, 2019_

Gabriel had blithely ignored how terrible everything was in favor of focusing on a pretty face and some stunning puck-handling, but that didn’t mean things couldn’t get worse. Things did get worse – it took less than a day, less than an hour, really. 

He hasn’t stopped thinking about that day for the past eleven months. It’s like _Groundhog Day_ , except the rest of the world has moved on and it’s just Gabriel who’s stuck reliving the worst day of his life.

Chris jumped onto one of the locker room benches after practice. “Hey everyone! Remember party at my place tonight! Eight o’clock. Who can help with a beer run now?”

Gabriel waited a beat, wary as always of looking too eager to spend time with Chris. “I’ve got time.”

“Awesome.” Chris stepped down. “Carts. Rookies. You’re going shopping with Tones.”

 

Beer run turned out to mean beer-and-snacks run. Gabriel found himself trailing Anthony through Whole Foods’ aisles of supposedly healthier organic junk food while Noah and Ryan were dispatched to buy a few carts full of beer. And maybe half a cart of wine for anyone who decided to be a _prissy diva_. 

Everything was normal. Anthony was comparing the labels on three different brands of white cheddar popcorn. Gabriel was wondering how much Anthony would laugh at him if he added dill pickle chips to the cart. Jack Johnson was crooning about Banana Pancakes over the store’s speakers. 

If someone had asked Gabriel how that particular day could have gone wrong, he could have gone through a million guesses – an off-ice injury, Chris introducing a new girlfriend at the party which was supposed to be team-only, the rookies buying the wrong type of beer and being mocked by the whole team – but he never would have guessed he’d run into Logan for the first time in a decade.

What were the odds of the one guy Gabriel had ever dated, had ever kissed, had ever done _anything_ with showing up more than five hundred miles from Malvern? They had to be vanishingly slim. Yet here Logan was, shopping for snacks, hand in hand with another man.

Gabriel stared at Logan a beat too long, long enough for Logan to notice him, for recognition to flash across Logan’s face.

“Gabriel?” Logan smiled, revealing the same dimples that had caught Gabriel’s eye in trigonometry.

“Logan.” Gabriel wished he had turned and run the second he saw Logan. He could have told Anthony he felt sick or something. Now Anthony was looking between Gabriel and Logan curiously.

“What are the odds?” Logan held out a hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

Gabriel took Logan’s hand, even as his own arm went tingly with pins and needles. 

“Gabriel, this is my boyfriend, Sameer.” Logan inclined his head towards the man standing next to him. “Sameer, Gabriel. We dated for a bit in middle school, if you can call it dating.”

Gabriel froze on the spot as all the air went out of his lungs, along with the last shreds of plausible deniability. He knew Anthony was somewhere behind him, but he couldn’t make himself turn around and look. He couldn’t think of the words that would diffuse the situation, or let him, subtly, kindly, ask Logan to shut the fuck up. Even if he could have thought of them, he wouldn’t have been able to speak them.

“Back in Toronto?” Sameer asked and Logan nodded. Gabriel snapped out of his terror-induced paralysis enough to extend his hand to Sameer.

“Oh,” Sameer grinned, shaking Gabriel’s hand. “I guess I have you to thank for –” 

Logan cut that horrifying line of conversation off by covering Sameer’s mouth with his hand.

“Sorry.” Sameer looked anything but, and Gabriel wished he could slash something. “So what brings you to Chicago, Gabriel?”

“We play hockey,” Anthony answered for him, suddenly standing next to Gabriel. “For the Hawks.”

Logan and Sameer stared at them blankly for a moment. “Oh, the NHL team,” Logan finally said. “Seriously? That’s awesome! I told you, you were going to be good.”

Gabriel didn’t remember Logan saying anything of the sort, but he did recall a few particularly enthusiastic handjobs after Logan came to some of his games. He furiously hoped Logan didn’t bring that up now.

He didn’t have time to think too much about it before Sameer waved a hand between Gabriel and Anthony and asked, “So are you guys together?”

“Toget…” Anthony started, then very quickly took several giant steps away from Gabriel. “I’m not gay.” He grabbed the cart. “We should go.”

“I’ll see you around,” Gabriel said weakly, following Anthony out of the aisle and not looking back at Logan and Sameer.

 

Anthony didn’t say anything until he pulled into the parking garage under Gabriel’s building and killed the engine. He’d already dropped the rookies off on the curb in front of Chris’s apartment building with the food and beer and terse instructions to carry everything up and help Chris get it sorted.

“What the fuck Carts?” Anthony finally asked. “Seriously, what the fuck?”

Gabriel had spent the entire drive trying to think of some way to explain, but he hadn’t come up with any good ideas through the overwhelming torrent of panic. 

“That faggot thought I was gay,” Anthony growled. “Why the fuck would he think that?”

Gabriel nearly sighed with relief. He was more than happy to talk about how Anthony wasn’t gay. “He doesn’t know who the Hawks are. I don’t think you need to worry about him.”

Anthony’s hands were clenched around the steering wheel. “I’m not worried. It’s not like anyone would believe him anyways.”

“Exactly.” Gabriel reached for the door handle.

Anthony glared at him. “Where the fuck are you going? We’re talking.”

Gabriel sank back into his seat. Afterwards, he would spend a lot of time wishing he’d opened the door and walked away and come back to the conversation after he’d thought up a believable lie. In hindsight, he has to acknowledge it wouldn’t have changed the fact he was playing on a team of homophobic dicks.

“That other guy was your boyfriend. You had a boyfriend.” Anthony wasn’t asking questions. “And you never thought that might be something you should mention.”

Gabriel folded his hands in his lap, then unfolded them. “It didn’t seem relevant.” 

“Not relevant?” Anthony sounded hysterical. “You’ve been hanging out in the locker room with a whole team of guys. You didn’t think we’d want to know you’re a faggot?”

Gabriel wishes he’d said something biting then, instead of murmuring, “I wasn’t looking.”

“You want me to believe that? You want me to believe anything you say right now?”

Gabriel closed his eyes.

“What about the way you talk about Chris?” Gabriel’s blood ran cold as Anthony pitched his voice high and breathy. “Ooh, Chris. You’re such a good player. You look so good playing hockey. Do you want to come over later?”

This couldn’t be happening. Gabriel had been so careful, had crushed down all his feelings and kept them under wraps. He swallowed hard, trying to process how he’d gotten to this point.

“What the fuck?” Anthony turned sharply in his seat to scowl directly at Gabriel. “Seriously?”

Gabriel felt sick. “No. Of course not.”

“No, really. What the fucking hell? That’s disgusting.” Anthony was practically yelling. Gabriel wondered wildly if anyone else in the garage could hear him. 

“Of course I don’t like Chris.” Gabriel’s voice felt faint and it sounded like a lie to his own ears. It was too late and he was trying too desperately. The damage was done.

Anthony crossed his arms. “Get out. Get out of my car.”

Gabriel didn’t wait to be told twice.

 

_Monday, March 4, 2019_

Gabriel scored one single goal last spring. It wasn’t a real goal, or at least not a real goal for Gabriel. Everyone was tied up in a mad scramble in front of the Flames’ net, crowded tightly enough that Gabriel lost sight of the puck. 

He felt the puck bounce hard off his stick, but he didn’t catch a glimpse of it until it had buried itself in the back of the net. Gabriel did the same double take as half the players on the ice when the goal horn sounded. 

Ilya and Noah rushed in to hug him. They must have realized the puck went off Gabriel’s stick. _They_ must have still been able to skate and watch the puck at the same time.

Thompson didn’t move from where he was standing five feet from Gabriel, until Ilya and Noah were between them.

Thompson joined the other side of the celly, not touching Gabriel and not making eye contact. Ilya yelled loud enough to cover the awkwardness. Gabriel could have kissed Ilya for that, if he’d been thinking clearly at all.

And if it wasn't for Ilya giving him a shove when they got to the gate, he wouldn't have remembered to stake down the bench for high fives. If he had remembered on his own, he may not have bothered.

He skated by quickly, staring at the line of gloves as he slapped them, so he didn’t have to look at his teammates’ faces or any of the cameras surrounding all of them. He should have just looked at the cameras. If he had, he wouldn’t have seen one of the gloves being pulled back, wouldn’t have followed the line of the arm it was attached to, wouldn’t have met Chris’s eyes as Chris leveled his blankest stare at Gabriel.

He could have left the Hawks with some semblance of a decent memory, because a sloppy goal was still a goal, but Chris was the kind of asshole who ruined everything and Gabriel was a sucker for him.

 

 _Wednesday, January 15, 2020_

The video ends to roaring applause, which gives way to the national anthem. Gabriel closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, shutting everything out, compartmentalizing. He has a game to win. He has a team of assholes to put in their places.

He wants to grind it into Chris’s face: _I’m better off without you. My new team can outplay you and outclass you by a mile. Our star goalie likes guys and he’s better than you too._ Winning is going to feel amazing.

 

 _Sunday, January 26, 2020_

By the time Ezra steps inside the restaurant, his palms are sweaty and his jeans must be drenched in sweat wiped from his palms. At least he doesn’t feel like he’s about to throw up anymore. He’s also no longer early. He was so worried about being late that he’d gotten here with ten minutes to spare and only then started worrying about seeming too eager.

Ezra has thought about nothing but this lunch for the last two weeks. Well, nothing but this lunch, and Patrick, and everything that might happen between them after this lunch, and whether or not this lunch is a date. Also, hockey. He’s still a professional goaltender.

He knows better than to trust his own hopeful judgement, but Oscar and Zach have been encouraging. On the other hand, Philippe cautioned him to not fall too hard, too fast when Ezra explained why he’d been distracted, carefully not identifying Patrick.

He’s just walked three laps around the block and he’s pretty sure this isn’t quite a date, but it probably is his best chance to prove to Patrick that dating Ezra is a great idea. He’s also sure that if he can face down NHL slapshots, he can manage lunch with a guy he likes, with possibly the first guy who has ever liked him. It still feels like a lot.

Ezra glances around the restaurant and his heart sinks. Patrick said it was casual, but the cheap tables and the TVs mounted on the walls don’t set the mood for anything approaching a date. Then again, it smells delicious and there’s something sweet about Patrick sharing his favorite neighborhood restaurant.

He catches sight of Patrick waving at him from a table near the bar and everything else flies out of his mind. Patrick is smiling and his dimples are showing. He looks good. He also looks as happy to see Ezra as Ezra is to see him.

Ezra makes his way to Patrick’s table. “Hi.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He should have thought this part through more. How is he going to keep a conversation going for hours?

“Hi,” Patrick replies as Ezra takes his coat off and drapes it over the chair. “It’s good to see you again. We missed you guys around the rink.”

“I missed you too.” Ezra bites his tongue.

Patrick just smiles again. His eyes look impossibly bright and warm. “Back-to-back road trips seem kind of stressful.” 

“They’re not usually so bad, except...” Ezra cuts himself off before he does something embarrassing, like tell Patrick that he’s the reason this last road trip felt like it dragged on forever. He sits down. The table is small enough that his knees knock against Patrick’s. Neither of them pull away.

“I’d miss being home too,” Patrick says.

That throws Ezra, the thoughtful response to a comment he didn’t make. 

“The food here is really good,” Patrick says, after an awkward moment. He pushes a menu towards Ezra, then pauses. “Um, I didn’t think about your diet plan. I have no idea if there’s anything you’re allowed to eat. I’m sorry I didn’t think about that. We could go somewhere else?”

“It’s fine. We’re allowed to eat unhealthy stuff occasionally. But thanks for checking.” Patrick’s uncertainty is calming. Maybe Ezra isn’t the only one who cares enough about how things work out between them to be nervous.

“Oh, good.” Patrick sounds relieved.

Ezra browses the menu for a minute, before asking, “What’s your favorite?”

“Do you like spicy food? Garlic?” Patrick replies.

Ezra nods.

“Garlic chicken, then.”

“Thanks. That sounds good – I’ll have to get it,” Ezra smiles.

When a server approaches, Patrick orders two plates of garlic chicken and a side of tamales, _to share_. Ezra feels warm all over.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Patrick asks. “They have good beer here.”

Ezra isn’t fond of beer, but – “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

When the beer arrives, Ezra doesn’t like it better than the countless other beers he’s tried, but the thought of Patrick ordering it for him more than makes up for the taste.

The food, though, is amazing, and not only because Patrick ordered it. Ezra says as much after a few bites.

“I’m glad you like it,” Patrick grins. “I probably come here way too often.”

“So you live around here?” Ezra asks. He’s resisted looking Patrick up online, mostly because snooping would feel pathetically eager. Unlucky.

Patrick nods. “I’m finishing my masters in mental health counseling at City College. It’s a few blocks south.”

“Oh, wow,” Ezra says. “That’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” Patrick flushes a very pretty pink. “I mean, it’s not playing in the NHL or anything, but I like it.”

It’s absurd that Patrick seems to feel inferior when he’s doing something so meaningful, but Ezra doesn’t know how to say that without making things awkward. “How’d you end up interning with the Rangers?”

Patrick laughs. “Everyone asks that. My resume is such a weird mishmash of different fields. Honestly, I’ve always loved hockey – watching, not playing – and I came across the posting for the internship last summer when I was hunting for real jobs, and it just kind of worked out.”

“I’m really glad it did.” Ezra beams at Patrick, but quickly feels too raw, too open. He changes the subject. “Did you ever play hockey?”

Patrick chews and swallows before answering. “During grade school. My hand-eye coordination was never good enough to seriously play team sports after that. I ended up running cross country instead.”

“Do you still run?” Patrick looks like he still runs.

“A bit. Mostly 5ks, but I want to start doing longer races.” Patrick gestures whenever he speaks. It’s enthralling.

“We should do a 5k together sometime.” Ezra wonders if they could train together too.

“You’re a professional athlete – I’m not sure us running together would work too well.” Patrick’s grin is wry. 

Ezra isn’t sure whether to take that as a brush-off or a subtle compliment on his athleticism. He prefers the latter option, so he goes with that. “Hockey players don’t run that much. I’m sure you’re faster than me.”

“Still,” Patrick says, and the silence feels uncomfortable for a moment. Ezra takes another bite of his chicken.

Patrick takes a few bites of his own, before breaking the silence. “So, can I ask who your first crush was?”

“Eric Shepherd,” Ezra replies.

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Former-captain-of-the-Penguins Eric Shepherd?” 

Ezra nods. “I grew up in Vancouver and he was a Canuck first.”

Patrick laughs, shrugging with it. “I’m not judging. He makes salt and pepper look very good.”

“He does.” Their shared taste in men must be a good sign. “Who was your first crush?” 

“Emma Watson,” Patrick answers. “First guy was Christian Kane.” 

“Christian Kane?” Ezra doesn’t recognize that name. He wants to know if Patrick’s type includes younger hockey players.

“He’s an actor,” Patrick says. “I guess you never watched _Leverage_?”

“Matilda’s been saying we should all watch that!” Ezra exclaims. “She’s Oscar’s girlfriend,” he adds. “Maybe we’ll marathon it on an off-day. You should come over and watch with us!”

“That would be fun,” Patrick agrees. Ezra wants to jump up and down, or clap, or maybe kiss Patrick.

He realizes he’s just sitting there smiling when Patrick continues. “Not to change the topic too abruptly, but I just wanted to say again that it was really brave of you to come out to the team.”

Ezra feels himself blushing. “I’m only coming out to the team. I don’t want to come out publicly or anything.”

“Hey, no – I didn’t mean to suggest you needed to do that.” Patrick’s voice is gentle. “I still think you’re really brave.”

“You are too, then. I mean, you came out to me and Oscar and Zach, and…” Ezra trails off, not sure how to ask if Patrick is out to anyone else on the team.

Patrick must understand the question anyways. “A few of the guys met Andrew – my ex – so they know, and I wouldn’t care if anyone else found out – pretty much everyone else in my life does – but it just hasn’t come up. You can tell whoever you want if it comes up.”

Ezra wants to ask how his teammates met Patrick’s ex, but that seems nosy. “It must be nice to be out to everyone.”

“It is,” Patrick smiles. “Maybe hockey will get to a point where you can come out to the people you know without having the general public pry into it.”

And maybe everyone in Ezra’s life will decide they’re happy he’s bi. Might as well dream big.

“Sorry, I know that’s still a pipe dream,” Patrick says. “But you’re making things better for other people by coming out and that’s awesome.”

“Thank you.” Patrick thinking he’s awesome makes up for a lot.

When they say goodbye outside the restaurant a bit later, Ezra wonders if he should kiss Patrick. Patrick leans in for a hug before he can decide. Ezra’s not the only one who holds on for a long time.

 

 _Monday, February 10, 2020_

Gabriel squints against the glow of his phone in his pitch-black bedroom. 3:47 am. Fuck.

He slides his phone back onto the nightstand, then rolls onto his side, closing his eyes. Five hours of sleep is not enough to play hockey on, at least not when that’s all he’s getting every night.

He counts to one hundred and rolls onto his other side. Starts counting again and loses his place somewhere in the sixties. Flexes and relaxes each limb in turn and starts counting backwards. Makes it to zero and feels wide awake. He’s still exhausted.

His phone reads 3:58 am. Fuck.

Gabriel rubs his eyes as he sits up and climbs out of bed. They’re gritty and oversensitive. They’ll be fine.

He pulls on a pair of thick wool socks and pads to the kitchen. Peppermint tea or chamomile? There’s earl grey in the cupboard too, but he only bought that because it’s Amber’s favorite. 

His kettle is still half full of water and sitting on the stovetop where he left it yesterday, so he only has to turn on the burner under it. 

He snaps a picture of the kettle when it starts steaming and sends it to Amber – _Picking up on your predawn tea routine_. She won’t see it for hours.

The kettle starts whistling, so he picks it up carefully and pours the water over his teabag, inhaling the crisp scent of peppermint. He doesn’t remember choosing a flavor. 

There’s nothing to do but sit down at his kitchen table and wait for the tea to steep. And then to cool, at least a little.

Gabriel has done nothing but wait lately – wait to feel okay. He’s waiting for the day when he doesn’t wake up hours before his alarm goes off, hating himself. He’s waiting for the day he wakes up with the energy to focus enough on how terribly he’s been playing to do something about it.

His brain should be screaming about his substandard play. After all, the game against Chicago is what kicked it into overdrive – the game where Gabriel had a half dozen sloppy mistakes and the team needed a shoot-out to eke out a win. Instead, his brain has zeroed in on his shitty personal decisions and it won’t fucking shut up about them. Apparently his brain doesn’t care what kind of hockey he’s playing, as long as he knows how much he has screwed up the rest of his life. 

He wraps his hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into his palms. It’s too hot to touch for more than a few seconds.

He feels like a failure. He is a failure. There’s been a seed of guilt eating at the back of his mind for years, telling him as much. Telling him he was a dick every time he kept his mouth shut while Chris mocked the rookies, or criticized Ilya in front of reporters, or belittled anyone who had a less than perfect game.

Gabriel decided a pretty face and some flashy skating were good enough reasons to keep his mouth shut, to look away, to laugh along. They’re fucking lousy reasons in retrospect. And Gabriel’s a lousy person who used them as excuses for being complicit in his teammates getting bullied.

He’s still a lousy person because that’s not what he feels the worst about. Nope. Gabriel’s brain can muster up _some_ sympathy for the people he was cruel to, but he’s hoarding the lion’s share of that sympathy for himself. He’s feeling humiliated and delusional and sorry for himself.

He’s not sure how he thought Chris liked him – no, not like that – simply liked him as a person, maybe as a friend. Despite the preponderance of evidence to the contrary, he clung to the belief that Chris liked him better than everyone else who was never good enough for him. Gabriel’s capacity for wishful thinking is absurd. The object of his wishful thinking is sickening.

The tea has cooled enough for him to keep his hands on the mug. He takes a tentative sip, inhales deeply, and takes a slightly larger one. The peppermint is bright on his tongue.

He’s so angry now too. He’s been angry at Chris and Anthony and a lot of folks from Chicago. He still is, but that anger feels warm and familiar in comparison to the burning rage he feels at himself.

Gabriel didn’t just fall for Chris’s face and his skating, did he? That would be forgivable, even if the complicity afterwards wasn’t. But Gabriel fucking set himself up to fall for an NHL asshole. He looked at all the scouts in the stands at his Wisconsin games, scouts he’d never expected and never been told to expect, but whose attention he’d nonetheless garnered. He got arrogant.

He decided he wanted everything the NHL had to offer – not only the opportunity to play hockey at the highest level, but damningly, the fame and fortune that feed off of an oppressive empire. He decided he deserved it and he didn’t care who got screwed over so he could have it.

Chris was beautiful, and he played beautiful hockey, but falling for Chris was a classic case of _do I want him or do I want to be him?_ Gabriel certainly wanted to be the NHL star who could do whatever he wanted.

He chose some shitty things to want and never once stopped to think about them until they bit him in the ass. It is hardly fair to whine about spending the hours before dawn sipping tea and hating himself when he never had a problem with the shit the NHL pulled as long as it was only hurting other people. 

Here Gabriel is, in the same place he’s been for weeks, sitting in a near dark apartment and feeling so selfish it hurts. It feels like one of those games when he spends three straight shifts trapped in the defensive zone with no workable exit. It’s what he deserves, but he’s not sure how much longer he can bear it.

Gabriel drains the last of his long cold tea and sets the mug in the sink, where it joins three other mugs.

He fiddles with his phone. It’s past 5 am now, which means it’s past 5 am in Toronto too. His mother will be awake. He taps her contact before he can second-guess himself, then nearly hangs up while he listens to the call ring in.

“Good morning, Gabriel.” She sounds wide awake and not at all surprised to hear from him.

“Good morning,” he replies.

“Is everything alright?” she asks. So much for not being surprised to hear from him. They’ve been talking more since Christmas, but they always text first to figure out a good time. And Gabriel has never been a morning person.

He improvises. “Just woke up early and thought I’d say hi. What are you doing today?”

“I’m glad you called,” she says, and he can hear her smile through the phone. “We’re starting a unit on the solar system today and I’m trying to decide if I should wear my planet dress or if that’s too Mrs. Frizzle.”

Gabriel thinks for a moment. “You’ve got first graders this year, mum. Looking like Mrs. Frizzle for one day is probably a good thing.”

“It probably is,” she agrees. “What are you up to?” 

“Not much besides practice this afternoon.” He already feels better from hearing his mother’s voice, but she has always given good advice and he could certainly use some now. “Can I ask you a kind of hypothetical question?” 

“Of course.” She sounds torn between worry and curiosity.

Gabriel takes a deep breath, steeling himself against the fear of everything that could go wrong when he gives voice to his failures. “So I have to give a friend some advice…”

He’s pretty sure that’s the most obvious lie ever, but his mother just hums in seeming agreement.

“What would you tell someone to do if they messed up in a major way? Not like a crime or anything, but what if they had always thought they were a good person? And they had mostly been good. But then they messed up and got arrogant, and were, just, well, unkind? What would you tell them if they wanted to be a good person again?”

His mother doesn’t say anything right away. The silence is deafening, terrifying. 

Gabriel’s chest eases minutely when she finally speaks. “I’d tell them they’re not a bad person,” she begins, and his chest eases further. “Obviously, I don’t know what they did, but they’re your friend and you’re a pretty good judge of character most of the time.” Gabriel wonders how much she has guessed, if the _most of the time_ is there to deliberately cut Chris out of his supposed good judgement.

“Apologizing and making amends are important,” she continues, “but if they’re worried about being unkind, I’d tell them to be kind every time they can. Once you start looking for opportunities to be kind, they’re everywhere.” 

_Start being kind at every opportunity._ It sounds so simple, and maybe it is.

“Thanks, mum,” he says softly. “That really helps.”

“You’re welcome. And Gabriel,” she pauses, “I love you a lot.”

“I love you too, mum.” He swallows hard. “I should let you finish getting ready for school.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” she replies. “I’m glad you called.”

“I am too. Goodbye.” Gabriel disconnects the call. The sun is coming up and he can hear the pigeons outside his window.

 

_Tuesday, February 12, 2020_

Ezra isn’t much of a coffee drinker, but he sees Patrick with a mug every time he stops by the front office. He feels a little weird about checking the mug to see if Patrick drinks coffee or tea, but figuring out a guy’s drink preferences is hardly stalker territory. Using the information for good more than cancels out any slight weirdness.

Ezra may not live in Manhattan, but he does live in the interesting part of Tarrytown and the five block radius around his apartment has five coffee shops. Two of them are Starbucks and one is a Dunkin Donuts. Two proper coffee shops sounds less impressive than five total coffee shops, though. Ezra has learned how to defend his neighborhood from his Manhattan-dwelling teammates.

They have video review today and Coach Sullivan likes to start early, so Ezra is awake at an ungodly hour, tromping through a few inches of snow, hoping to find the perfect cup of coffee. 

The first shop he checks, the one closer to his apartment, is dark inside. He peeks through a window: chairs are stacked on tables and there are no baristas in sight. The sign on the door says the shop opens at eight. Ezra has to be at the rink by eight.

He decides he would rather walk to the second shop than take his gloves off to check its hours on his phone. Luckily, it’s open. He hopes the lack of a line has to do with the average working schedule or the number of people willing to brave icy slush for coffee, not the quality of the coffee.

He orders two coffees, because it feels less weird that way.

When he gets back to the apartment, his roommates are nearly ready to leave. He’s grateful to Zach’s commitment to arriving everywhere early.

“There you are!” Oscar exclaims. “You should respond to your texts.”

Ezra pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through the texts he missed from Oscar and Zach, wondering where he was. “Sorry. I didn’t feel it buzz through my coat.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Zach grins. “Did you bring us coffee?” 

 

“Um, I…” Ezra should have gotten two more coffees.

“Do not be ridiculous.” Oscar laughs, swinging his gear bag up to his shoulder. “The coffee is for Patrick. Are you guys ready to go?”

Ezra nods.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Zach lightly punches Ezra’s arm. “I see how it is. I see who your favorite is.”

Ezra pulls his hood over his head as Oscar and Zach laugh. The hood isn’t big enough to hide his face.

Zach throws an arm around Ezra’s shoulders. “Come on, Patches. Your boy’s going to appreciate the coffee. Let’s get to the rink before it gets cold.”

 

Ezra spends the short drive to the rink worrying about having to find Patrick and whether or not it will be weird to go looking for him and whether or not he’ll even be there this early. All the worrying turns out to be needless because they run into Patrick almost as soon as they walk into the building.

“Good morning, Ezra,” Patrick smiles far too broadly for this early in the morning, except it’s not too broad because Patrick can never smile enough. “Zach, Oscar.”

“Oh, hi, good morning!” Ezra stammers back. He barely stops himself from squeezing the paper cups in his hands too tightly.

“Ezra brought you coffee,” Zach says, either helpful or embarrassing. Ezra decides to give Zach the benefit of the doubt when Patrick smiles at him again.

“Thank you.” Patrick glances at the two cups. “You guys are here early. Do you have time to sit down and drink it with me?”

Ezra nods. He _absolutely_ has time to sit down and drink coffee with Patrick.

“We have to, um, we have to go and take care of things.” Oscar waves a hand between himself and Zach. “That is why we are here early.”

“Oh, okay.” Patrick looks confused for a moment as Oscar and Zach start walking further down the hallway. He turns back to Ezra. “I’m glad you have time.”

Patrick rests a hand on Ezra’s back, guiding him down a side hallway towards the front office. Ezra can feel Patrick’s hand burning through his coat. He wonders if the touch feels as electric to Patrick.

Patrick takes him to a small break room that Ezra has never seen before. He feels a pang of disappointment when Patrick pulls out a chair at the small table in the middle of the room, avoiding the glossy couch along the back wall.

Ezra slides into the chair across from Patrick. He shucks his gloves, but keeps his coat on. He leaves his hat on too because his hair is a mess underneath. Normally, he wouldn’t care, but Patrick’s hair is perfectly tousled.

“I hope the coffee is good. I got it from a neighborhood place, but I haven’t actually tried their coffee before.”

“Not home enough for coffee shops?” Patrick’s lips quirk upward before he takes a sip. “It’s really good.”

Ezra takes a sip from his own cup. It tastes like coffee. Patrick’s smile fills him with fondness for the bitter taste.

“You have an early day today,” Patrick comments.

“I have no idea why Sullivan likes to start video review before anyone should be awake. Are you always here this early?”

“No, thankfully,” Patrick sighs. “My clinical observation got moved to today, so i’m taking care of a few things now since I can’t be here this afternoon.”

“Clinical observation?” Ezra takes another sip. The taste isn’t growing on him.

“I spend two days a week shadowing a few different juvenile therapists,” Patrick answers. “I’m mostly listening and taking notes and being as unobtrusive as possible, but two of the therapists are letting me lead sessions with new patients.”

“So you’re counselling kids today?” Ezra feels himself smiling. It’s a common feeling around Patrick. “That’s awesome! Do you enjoy it?”

“I’m learning how to counsel kids,” Patrick corrects lightly, taking a long sip of coffee. “I like it a lot. These are long days, but they’re good. The kids are fantastic.”

Ezra can picture Patrick, a few years older and still as handsome, coming home after a day of helping kids sort their lives out. Ezra would have their favorite take-out waiting and Patrick would tell Ezra about his day while they ate. Ezra wouldn’t have to tell him much about hockey because Patrick would still know the team. They’d eat in the kitchen and tangle their legs together under the table. Maybe they’d have a cat who sat on their feet or tried to steal their dinner. Or a dog. Ezra should ask if Patrick prefers cats or dogs.

Patrick nudges Ezra’s foot. Ezra wants to tangle their feet together _now_. They’re both at work, though, and he doesn’t know how Patrick feels about flirting in front of their coworkers. 

“Sorry,” Patrick says. “I didn’t mean to bore you talking about work.”

“You didn’t!” Ezra exclaims, feeling guilty and mortified all at once. “I was just thinking you must be really good with kids.” 

“Well, I try. And I like them.” Patrick smiles, seemingly willing to move past Ezra’s space cadet moment.

Ezra smiles back at him.

“I’ve seen you working with kids, right?” Patrick asks. “The tiny goalies?”

“Oh, um.” Ezra drains his coffee in an attempt to hide the flush rising up his cheeks. “Shep, um, Philippe, does a lot of work with some of the local youth teams and he’s asked me to help out once or twice.”

“Those kids are adorable. I don’t know how they move at all with that gear on. Did you look that ridiculous as a baby goalie?” Patrick asks.

Did Patrick just call him adorable? Ezra laughs to cover the way his heart is pounding. 

Patrick drains his coffee. “I should probably let you get to practice,” he says standing up. “Thanks for the coffee. It was really good.”

Ezra wants to protest, but a quick glance at his phone confirms that he really doesn’t have time to stay longer. “Of course. Thanks for letting me hang out.”

Patrick smiles again, all shiny white teeth and wide brown eyes. “Anytime.”

 

 _Saturday, February 15, 2020_

Gabriel awakens to a ringing in his head. He squints his eyes open and gingerly reaches for his temples, trying to remember if he took a bad hit. That’s when he realizes the ringing isn’t in his head: it’s coming from the alarm clock. How long has it been since he woke up to an alarm clock?

He silences the clock and rolls out of bed. It doesn’t take him long to shower and brush his teeth in the blandly opulent hotel bathroom. Thankfully, practice isn’t until the afternoon, so he doesn’t have to put a suit on for breakfast.

The conference room that has been set up with a buffet for the team is nearly empty. Most of his teammates must be taking advantage of the free morning to sleep in and wake up leisurely. Gabriel feels like he did sleep in.

He piles a plate high with quiche and toast and fruit. Eating fresh berries year round is an unexpected perk of playing professional hockey. He sets the plate down near the end of one of the tables stretching the length of the room, and grabs a newspaper out of the stack sitting by the door. He isn’t particularly interested in Pittsburgh news, but he’s spent way too much time screwing around on his phone lately, and he’s sure there’s a crossword puzzle somewhere in the paper.

He has finished half the quiche and filled in four words in the crossword when he hears someone clear their throat. He looks up to see Ilya standing across the table from him, his own tray in hand.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Ilya smiles.

Gabriel swallows. He’s not in the mood to discuss his shaky play this morning, but company would be welcome. He holds up the crossword puzzle. “Do you want to help me with this?”

“You are doing crossword puzzles now?” Ilya asks excitedly, coming around the table to sit next to Gabriel. “I need to practice English crosswords!”

Gabriel forgot that Oliver runs a road trip crossword tournament with far too many rules. Gabriel isn’t clear on what they are, beyond the inclusion of puzzles in all the participants’ native languages. Oliver’s kind of a strange captain, not bad though, and Ilya seems to really like him.

“This is going to be mortifying if you know more words than I do.” Gabriel grins. He doesn’t care that much, but he’s been playing hockey long enough that chirping comes as naturally as talking.

Ilya doesn’t know more words than Gabriel. Ilya knows a lot of words, but now that he’s talking the clues through out loud, so does Gabriel. Besides, it’s a weekday crossword in a local paper.

They’re almost finished when the rookies tumble into the seats a few spaces down from Gabriel, looking sleep-rumpled and bickering companionably. Gabriel nods a quick good morning and turns back to Ilya.

The rookies are loud, but Gabriel manages to tune them out until Patches starts whining about his clothes. More specifically, he starts fussing about what gameday suit he should wear tomorrow to impress some guy who’s coming to their game at home. 

It’s stupid and it’s arrogant. Ezra isn’t even out to everyone on the team. At the very least, he’s not out to Gabriel; he’s never said anything about liking guys to Gabriel or asked anyone else to say as much. But here he is, talking about how much he likes this mystery guy and expecting everyone in earshot to be fine with it.

He _should_ be able to talk about guys the same way their teammates talk about girls, but that’s not the way the NHL works. Except the whole world works differently for spoiled stars who know their teammates have to agree with them.

Ilya clears his throat softly and Gabriel looks over at him. Ilya gives him a hard look, lips thinned and brows drawn. He obviously remembers Gabriel storming out of a bar at the mere suggestion that Ezra might openly like guys.

Gabriel stares at his plate, ashamed. Patches may be arrogant, but he’s not hurting anyone save Gabriel, and there’s no _good_ reason for Gabriel to feel hurt. Hell, he’s not even sure why he does.

He has a teammate who’s stuck in the same shitty, homophobic boat he is, and his teammate has found a lifeline. Gabriel should be happy for him. Gabriel should really be supporting him. He breathes in and out and remembers his mum’s suggestion to make kind choices. 

Gabriel turns to the rookies, ignoring the way Ilya tenses next to him, and ignoring how much that hurts. They’ve moved on to debating whether a purple or a grey shirt would bring out Patches’s eyes better.

He swallows down his first response: _Seriously? Seriously?_ Then his second: _Ezra’s eyes are fine. They don’t need to be brought out._ And his third: _Would purple or grey actually highlight brown eyes?_

Gabriel interrupts as smoothly as he can with his fourth thought. “Ezra, if this guy likes you well enough to come watch you play, you probably don’t need to worry about making him notice your eyes.” He punctuates the statement with a smile, then adds, “He’s mostly going to see you in your gear anyways.”

He’s met with three blank stares, and he thinks for a moment he said something wrong. It would figure that he tries for supportive and lands on offensive. But Oscar’s face breaks into a grin, after a moment, followed quickly by Zach’s.

Zach turns to Ezra. “See. Nothing to worry about. He likes you.”

“I don’t know –” Ezra cuts himself off, then smiles, soft and fragile, at Gabriel. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” Gabriel is struck by the thought that as long as Ezra looks at the mystery guy like that, he doesn’t need to worry about eyes or shirts or anything else. He takes that thought and buries it as deep as he can.

“Should I get my mask repainted instead?” Ezra asks, the question seemingly directed at Gabriel. That breaks the spell pretty effectively.

Oscar sputters something about the winning streak they’ve had with his current mask and Gabriel gratefully turns back to Ilya with an incredulous sigh.

Ilya is beaming though, as broad and bright as he beams for overtime game-winners. Gabriel smiles back as Ilya knocks their shoulders together and doesn’t say anything.

He feels good, not overtime game-winner good, but better than he’s felt in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes homophobia, both external and internalized, including two scenes with explicit homophobic bullying. If that's not something you want to read, you should skip the sections under the Sunday, February 17, 2019 and Monday, March 4, 2019 date headers. This chapter also includes a character dealing with depression and self-doubt. Feel free to message me for more details or let me know if there's anything else you think I should warn for.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are love!
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://love-your-goalie.tumblr.com). I'm probably screaming about women's hockey and the Washington Capitals!


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